


Deflowered - Director's Cut

by Lorelei_Lee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Mob, Anal Beads, Anal Fingering, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Begging, Blow Jobs, Boss John, Bottom Sherlock, Desperation, Dubious Consent, First Time, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Jealous John, Johnlock Roulette, Loss of Virginity, Love, M/M, Male Slash, Minor Character Death, Pining, Pining Sherlock, Prostate Massage, Prostate Milking, Rape/Non-con Elements, Riding Crops, Romance, Slash, Sounding, Spanking, Top John, Violence, Virgin Sherlock, rentboy sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-12 05:05:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 51
Words: 328,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3344687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorelei_Lee/pseuds/Lorelei_Lee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It should have been strictly business. Being a Mafia boss with a sadistic sexual streak, John had long since realised that his playthings were in it for the money only. Being a masochistic rent boy, Sherlock seemed too good to be true. Little did they know…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SwissMiss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/gifts).



> My endless thanks go to [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss) for her beautiful and fantastic translation. I want to thank her for her never-ending support and helpful comments. SwissMiss - you are awesome!
> 
> This work is a translation (by the wonderful [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss)) of my own german story ["Unberührt - extended version"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/909088), which was a re-write of my own english Story "[Deflowered](http://archiveofourown.org/works/787390)", which was inspired by the totally fantastic [gifs by mrs-mob-johnlocked](http://mrs-mob-johnlocked.tumblr.com/post/47382376565/mob-au-boss-john-bought-the-first-night-of).
> 
> You can find cover-art and fan-art [HERE](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3339449/chapters/7303709)
> 
> There is now also a Chinese translation:  
> [HERE](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4601841)  
> That's quite a list, isn't it?

 

**Chapter 1: Prologue**

 

Violet Sigerson was dying.

 

A fun-loving woman, once so full of life, she had finally been beaten by cancer. The hospital staff had already moved her to a private room, so that she could say good-bye to her loved ones in peace.

 

Only two people sat at Violet's bedside, both of them with the full knowledge that it was only a matter of hours before their dearly beloved closed her eyes forever.

 

One of them was Doris Adler, Violet's best – and only – friend. The two women had been friends since the day Doris' curious little girl peeked into a pram during a walk through the park. Violet's newborn son was its occupant, and little Irene had exclaimed that there was an angel in the pram, wanting to know if the woman pushing him was the Virgin Mary.

 

The memory brought a wan smile to Doris' face. That had been over five years ago. Her anxious gaze wandered across the bed to Violet's son. His slight frame had slumped to the side in exhaustion, supported only by the armrests of his chair. He was asleep.

 

The previously carefree, happy child had become a quiet, sombre boy over the course of the past few months, as his mother struggled against her disease. Doris wondered, not for the first time, whether his superior intelligence was an advantage or a disadvantage in his situation.

 

She sighed softly.

 

He understood so much of what the doctors said. He was able to comprehend words, concepts, and connections that went right over the heads of other children his age.

 

On the one hand, his grasp of the situation freed Doris from the painful duty of having to explain everything in small words to him later. It also freed her from having to decide how much to tell him, and what was better to keep from him. On the other hand, it placed a weight on his shoulders that had proven too heavy even for some adults. But he'd been brave so far.

 

Something moved under the hospital sheets. Doris quickly returned her attention to her friend, who sighed softly and fluttered her eyes open.

 

"Doris," she whispered.

 

"Yes, dear," Doris responded immediately and took her hand, which lay limply on the blanket. "I'm right here."

 

With a weak gesture, Violet signalled her to come closer.

 

She waited to speak until Doris' ear was right next to Violet's mouth.

 

"Bring Sherlock to his father," she said in a hushed tone.

 

Doris flinched back a bit.

 

"Do you think that's a good idea?"

 

"It's better than an orphanage."

 

" _I_ could..."

 

"They wouldn't give him to you," Violet contradicted her gently. "You're divorced, and you're not a relative."

 

Doris sighed. She knew Violet was right. It was hard enough for her to struggle through alone with her daughter. Her ex-husband had disappeared somewhere abroad, and the welfare support she received was nowhere near enough.

 

A surprisingly strong pressure on her hand made Doris look up again.

 

"Promise me, Doris. Bring him to Sherrinford Holmes."

 

"All right. I promise. Should I wake Sherlock, so that you..." Doris couldn't manage to complete the sentence. Tears welled up in her eyes, and her throat tightened.

 

Violet turned her head and graced her sleeping son with a look that was filled with love.

 

"Later," she whispered to Doris. "I'll talk to him later." She closed her eyes. "My poor, dear boy." Her breathing slowed. She had fallen asleep again.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

An hour later, Violet awoke. As soon as she opened her eyes, she found herself looking into Sherlock's alert face. A gentle smile settled on her lips.

 

"Sherlock – my little angel," she whispered affectionately, and held her hand out.

 

Sherlock slid closer and let his mother embrace him as well as she could.

 

"Mama," he whispered into her neck.

 

"Oh, Sherlock..." she sighed softly, stroking a hand over his dark, unruly curls. "My beautiful little boy. I'm so sorry."

 

"Me too, Mama," Sherlock mumbled. "I don't want you to... I don't, I don't!"

 

Doris stood up and turned away. Tears were running down her face, and she didn't want the others to see them. When everything was over, she would have to comfort Sherlock; she would have to be strong. But she couldn't do that if she allowed him to see her pain now.

 

"My darling," Violet murmured, her voice thick. "It's not up to me. Just be good and do what Aunt Doris says." She placed a light kiss on his wild curls.

 

"I... I love you, Mama," Sherlock sniffled.

 

"I love you too," Violet said with a tired smile. "I shall always love you." She closed her eyes. It would be the last time.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Her heart pounding wildly, Doris dialed the number she'd received from the information service.

 

"Holmes," a male voice answered.

 

"Mr Holmes? Mr Sherrinford Holmes?" Doris asked tentatively.

 

"Speaking. Who is this, please?"

 

"My name is Doris Adler. I'm a friend of Violet's..."

 

"Violet?!" he cried in surprise. "What... How is she?"

 

Doris swallowed heavily.

 

"She's dead, Mr Holmes."

 

"Oh." Silence. "When?" he asked quietly. His voice sounded sad.

 

"Ten days ago."

 

"Then it's too late for a wreath." He cleared his throat. "Why have you called? Did she have any debts that need to be repaid?"

 

Doris took a deep breath. "No. She didn't have any debts. She had... a child."

 

"And what does that have to do with..."

 

"Please let me finish, Mr Holmes. It's your child too." She closed her eyes. Thank God. It was out.

 

"My... child?" he asked slowly. "But how..."

 

"I believe you know precisely _how_ ," Doris remarked, more pointedly than she'd intended. "Violet told me she had an affair with you for over a year, and that you then reconciled with your wife, with whom you already had a son."

 

"Yes, Mycroft was only..." he said softly, stricken.

 

"Violet didn't realise she was pregnant until two months after you'd separated," Doris went on, more gently now. "She never intended for you to know."

 

"But why? I... I would have..."

 

"You must know how proud she was," Doris said simply.

 

"Yes... yes, she was. And beautiful. So beautiful, and her laugh..." He broke off. "Then the child must be almost six years old?"

 

"Yes. His name is Sherlock."

 

"Sherlock..." he repeated pensively. Then he continued more briskly: "Bring him to me next week. I'll give you the address."

 

"To you?"

 

"Yes, that's what Violet wanted, isn't it? For him to grow up with me. Together with his brother." He paused for a moment. "Miss Adler. He's my son. I promise you he won't want for anything with me."

 

"I imagine your wife won't exactly be over the moon about it," Doris said, giving voice to her concerns.

 

On the other end of the line, Sherrinford Holmes exhaled loudly. "Leave my wife to me."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

A few days later, Doris was sitting at the dinner table with Irene and Sherlock when she decided it was time to bring up the delicate topic she'd been avoiding for so long.

 

"Sherlock?"

 

"Mmmhhh," Sherlock mumbled, his mouth full of potatoes, and continued watching Irene, who was cutting up his meat for him on his plate. Sherlock was perfectly able to do it himself, but Irene – four years older – absolutely worshipped him and loved to mother him. Also, despite his limitless curiosity, Sherlock was basically lazy and careless at heart, and he was happy whenever someone did something for him so that he wouldn't have to do it himself. Especially when he was occupied with more important things – to his mind, anyway – than wiping his nose or tying his shoelaces.

 

"Thirty-four," he said around his food. "Peas. On my plate," he explained with a patronising look, which didn't quite fit on his chubby, childish face, and made Doris want to laugh every time. She knew better, though, and refrained, else she provoke one of the spectacular tantrums he always worked himself into when he didn't feel that he was being taken seriously.

 

"Sherlock, I'm bringing you to your father next week," Doris said hastily, and promptly felt ashamed that she hadn't been able to break it to him more gently.

 

Sherlock's big, pale grey eyes rested on her without blinking. He swallowed his potatoes and said suspiciously, "I don't have a father."

 

"Of course you do, silly!" Irene reproved him. "Everyone has a father."

 

"You don't either!" Sherlock protested.

 

"Yes, I do!"

 

"No, you don't!"

 

"Do!"

 

"Where is he then?"

 

"No one knows," Irene said, almost proudly. "But he used to live with us."

 

Sherlock assimiliated this new data silently before turning back to Doris.

 

"Can't I stay here?" His big eyes took on a pleading expression that no one had ever been able to resist.

 

Doris sighed. "This is the way it has to be. Family services has already sent a letter, and I spoke to your father a few days ago. He's looking forward to seeing you."

 

"Why?" Sherlock asked, as if that didn't make any sense. "He doesn't even know me."

 

Doris couldn't think of a single answer to that question. So she changed the topic. "You're going to have a new family. You're going to live with your father and his wife, and... just think, Sherlock! You're going to have a big brother. His name is Mycroft and he's a few years older than you."

 

Sherlock also assimilated this new data without a word. Then his expression lightened. "Brilliant! Then I'll finally have someone to play pirates with and hunt for treasure."

 

"Pirates is a dull game," Irene hissed.

 

"It is not! Always playing with dolls is dull."

 

"Sherlock! Irene!" Doris cried out to nip the argument in the bud. "That's enough! Both of you!"

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_**20 years later...** _

 

"Are you really going through with this?" Irene asked, watching Sherlock smooth down his jacket in front of the mirror.

 

"How often are you going to ask me that?" Sherlock drawled in reply.

 

"I could still blow them off," Irene suggested.

 

A begrudgingly amused smile twitched across Sherlock's lips. "Interesting choice of words."

 

Irene shot him a venomous look.

 

"You're not going to cancel," Sherlock declared firmly. "You announced it a week ago, and my decision is final."

 

"Fine!" Irene said and turned to go. At the door, she stopped and tossed a mocking look over her shoulder. "Your wish is my command. If an income opportunity like this turns up – completely uncoerced, I might add – I'm not going to let it slip through my fingers." She looked him over once more. "Don't embarrass me," she admonished him finally, before leaving the room.

 

Sherlock, unaffected, checked his image in the mirror again. Tonight, he was going to lose his virginity to the highest bidder in Irene's brothel.

 

He just hoped he wasn't too bored.

 

He firmly pushed down the fluttery feeling threatening to rise in his stomach. With a certain objective distance, he decided he'd been through worse things in his life than having anal intercourse for the first time.

 

There was absolutely no logical reason to be anxious.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

_**To be continued...** _

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

Just a little something to whet your appetite... and the proof, that the translation is really happening!

 

Notes:

 

I'm afraid you hate me for this chapter already. What's going to happen once the story really gets going?

 

If it's any comfort... This chapter marked a first for me. I cried my way through two tissues writing this. That's never happened to me before.


	2. The Auction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find cover-art and fan-art [HERE](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3339449/chapters/7303709)
> 
>  

**Chapter 2: The Auction**

 

John Watson, better known in some circles as "The Doctor" - a nickname he hated, but had grudgingly grown accustomed to - was bored.

 

His last piece of tail had had to be eliminated a few weeks ago, as he hadn't understood when to open wide and when to keep his big mouth shut. The fucking slut had thought he could rat him out to the police. Too bad for him that most of London's officers were on John's payroll anyway, regardless of what it said in their contracts. The little cocksucker hadn't remembered how long the mob's arm was. And it was very long.

 

It was still a crying shame that John had lost his only leisure activity, and the boredom had put him in a foul mood.

 

His buddy Mike Stamford, who went way back with him - back to the time before John was called either "Doc" or "Boss" - was the only one who dared to bring it up, and that was only due to their long friendship. Everyone else had hurriedly excused themselves once the most urgent orders of business had been attended to.

 

Mike had moved up along with John in the _family_ , and had been promoted by John to the position of his advisor. No one else knew as well as he did that John Watson and a bad mood made for a truly hellish combination.

 

"Why don't you try a professional again?" Mike said in a deliberately casual tone. But one dark look from John had him backpedalling. "I mean, at least those blokes know what they're doing. Maximum fun, minimum trouble." When Mike saw that John continued to look sceptical, he added, "At least for a little while – until something else comes along to keep your bed warm on a more long-term basis. At least consider it, Johnny. And while you're at it, think about us. You're not exactly easy to get along with when you're like this. So get back in there and treat yourself to something special tonight."

 

John just snorted derisively.

 

Although ... it would mean less trouble. And if there was something he could use at the moment, it was less trouble. Getting rid of his bit of fluff had kicked up quite a lot of dust, and the amount that Inspector Dimmock had demanded to make sure the investigation ran into a dead end rather than directly to him was frankly exorbitant.

 

But maximum fun? John doubted it. It went strictly against his principles to pay for something he could just as easily have for free. On the other hand ... the pretty waiters or barkeepers he pulled in restaurants or at parties were rarely completely free either. It never took long for them to grow restless with no compensation beyond free room and board at his house, and they started demanding watches and silk shirts. And most of them became steadily less willing to satisfy his more exotic preferences. John sighed.

 

He'd gone to brothels in the past, but he generally preferred to have his lovers close by at all times, ready for action whenever he wanted it, so to speak. At least prostitution was an honest business. Well, except for the fact that they were usually faking their enjoyment, which was something else that John hated on principle. On the other hand ... he paid, and his plaything did what it was asked to. His wishes were fulfilled, and his appetites satisfied. Was it really so important whether their enthusiasm was fake?

 

Probably not.

 

And so John took Mike's advice – if grudgingly – and went down to Irene Adler's brothel that evening, as its offerings matched his tastes exactly. An astute woman - not just a fag hag, but an extremely clever, ambitious, and calculating businesswoman - she'd succeeded several years ago in the delicate balancing act of establishing herself with a house that catered exclusively to male clientele with exclusively male prostitutes.

 

Miss Adler's establishment was an old, multi-storey Victorian townhouse situated on a side street in a halfway decent part of the city. John's chauffeur stopped to let him off, then drove on to find a place to park. John would text him when he was ready to be picked up.

 

Although John hadn't been here in months, he was greeted with exemplary courtesy and led into the grand lounge on the ground floor.

 

Miss Adler's house wasn't one of those cheap, tatty dives you might find in Soho or other areas of London. The rooms were high-ceilinged and full of light, and decorated with elegant furnishings, some of them antique. In addition to the large reception room, there were several more intimate lounges, where employees could sit down for an informal tête-à-tête with potential clients, and of course the upper floors contained bedrooms equipped according to the varied tastes of their guests, each with a large, comfortable bed.

 

John recognised some of the other guests who were there already, and in the course of chatting with them, he discovered that one of the new employees' virginity was being auctioned off that evening. The highest bidder would win the right to his first night.

 

This was unusual, even for a brothel, and it awakened John's curiosity. The thought of deflowering a prostitute wasn't without its attractions. He hadn't been anyone's first in quite a long time.

 

The auction didn't begin for another half hour, so John used the time to find out as much as he could about the new kid, someone he'd never heard of. But other than his name (Sherlock) and the general statement that he was rather headstrong – albeit incredibly brilliant and gifted for this business – he couldn't get anything else out of the other guests. He had the distinct feeling that they were keeping something from him in order to discourage him from bidding.

 

After a brief exchange with a member of the security staff and a medium-sized tip, John was at least able to find out that Sherlock had already been working for Miss Adler for over six months, and was nevertheless still a virgin. That was really very unusual for a brothel. John had completely forgotten his boredom by this point.

 

When Miss Adler joined her guests shortly thereafter – dressed, as per usual, in very tasteful but somewhat severe attire – and announced the start of the auction, John looked around the room, trying to catch a glimpse of this mysterious Sherlock character. But although several of the other employees were present, Sherlock distinguished himself solely through his absence.

 

Even without the visual incentive, the bids quickly shot up to an amount John would never have expected, and which rather surprised him.

 

He waited a few more minutes before calling out – quite impulsively – his offer. Silence fell for the space of a few seconds, as everyone present tried to conjure up an image of the frankly obscene amount of money that someone was willing to pay for a rent boy's virginity.

 

Shock and surprise – but also envy – registered on most of their faces, but Miss Adler was grinning like the cat who'd caught the canary when John stepped forward, wrote out a cheque, and handed it to her.

 

She folded the paper, put it into her purse, and led John to the second floor, where the better rooms for the more well-heeled customers were. She indicated one of the doors with an elegant gesture.

 

"I wish you an extremely exciting evening, Doctor," Miss Adler said, and walked away, humming a little tune to herself.

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

_Doris Adler led Sherlock to the house where Mr Holmes was waiting for them. An older woman - who introduced herself as Mrs Hudson - opened the door when they rang, and led them to what she told them was Mr Holmes' study, where he would receive them. Sherlock's little hand clutched Doris' fingers tightly, and when they reached their destination and Mrs Hudson left them alone for a moment to go into the study and announce them, Doris took the opportunity to bend down to Sherlock._

 

_"You don't need to be afraid," she whispered to him comfortingly._

 

_"I know, Aunt Doris," Sherlock whispered back, adding in a smaller voice than Doris had ever heard from him before: "I still am, a bit."_

 

_"Everything's going to be fine," Doris tried to assure him. "You'll see."_

 

_Sherlock nodded bravely and pushed his chin forward. Doris had to smile at the sight. A moment later, Mrs Hudson was standing beside them again, holding the door open. Doris walked across the threshold with Sherlock, and a tall, slender man with high cheekbones approached them, his pale green eyes fixed openly on the little boy holding her hand._

 

_"Sherlock..." he said, his voice betraying his emotions, and crouched down in front of the boy._

 

_Doris saw that Mr Holmes' sand-coloured hair was neatly parted, but still looked like he had just been running his hands through it. Apparently Sherlock wasn't the only one who was experiencing a bit of anxiety over this meeting._

 

_"Papa?" Sherlock replied carefully, moving as if to hide behind Doris. But when he saw the man's broad smile, he let go of her hand and held it out to his father with resolve._

 

_Mr Holmes took the little hand and shook it firmly._

 

_"My boy..." he said softly. "You have her hair and her nose and her mouth and..." He straightened up, still holding Sherlock's hand in his, and said with great gravity to Doris, "Thank you for bringing him to me. Truly, thank you."_

 

_Sherlock decided the man posed no immediate danger. Also, he felt he'd been on his best behaviour for long enough. He pulled on his father's hand to remind him of his presence and to ask something that was really quite important._

 

_When the man's smiling eyes turned to him, Sherlock asked, "Where's my brother?"_

 

_"Yes, of course!" his father laughed. "How inattentive of me. My wife and your brother Mycroft are waiting in the green parlour with tea for us." He turned to Doris. "You'll join us, I hope?"_

 

_"I'd love to." Doris accepted the invitation even though she felt rather ill at ease in such opulent surroundings._

 

_Mr Holmes went ahead with Sherlock, opening the door to a small, cheerful room with French doors leading out to a park-like garden. Mrs Holmes and Mycroft were seated at a table._

 

_They both rose from their chairs and looked Sherlock over. Mycroft must have been seven or eight years older than Sherlock, and was the spitting image of his mother, with his straight, chestnut-brown hair and his steely blue eyes._

 

_"Sylvia, Mycroft... This is Sherlock," Mr Holmes announced, not without a certain degree of pride._

 

_Doris' greatest worry had been Mrs Holmes' reaction. She had expected antipathy and rejection, but now she was pleasantly surprised to see Sylvia Holmes' cool gaze melt and soften as she looked at Sherlock._

 

_What Doris hadn't expected was the contempt and anger in the eyes of Sherlock's half-brother. She only hoped that Sherlock, who was being ensconced in Mrs Holmes' arms, hadn't noticed that Mycroft wasn't at all kindly disposed toward him. Things would probably straighten themselves out quickly._

 

_But Sherlock had taken in everything with his astute eyes. The sudden sympathy from his new mother as well as the deep disapproval in Mycroft's posture._

 

_Sherlock blinked, confused, and decided then and there to do everything he could to make his big brother like him. How difficult could it be? He'd always been successful at it before. Even the grumpy old baker, who always snuck him a biscuit now._

 

_He'd always wanted a brother..._

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

John entered without knocking, pulling the door closed and locking it behind him. Only then did he take a moment to look around the room. Miss Adler's rooms generally provided all the comforts of an expensive hotel suite, and this one was no exception. A big, luxurious bed with dark red satin sheets, topped with an extravagant excess of pillows; a medium-high sideboard, whose function John was well acquainted with from earlier visits as the place where sex aids, utensils, and toys of all kinds were discreetly stored; and finally two comfortable armchairs set around a little table.

 

One of the chairs was occupied – namely by his newest trophy, the young virgin. But John saw that he was going to have to re-think his initial assessment. This rent boy was no boy any longer. A grown man sat in the armchair. A man in an elegant black suit, his legs casually slung over each other. John was surprised, to say the least. This Sherlock was definitely older than he'd expected. He still seemed fairly young, though, which was probably partly due to his slender build, his pale, delicate skin, and his dark, boyish curls, which hung down over his forehead like a schoolboy's. Taken all together, it could fool another less observant client into thinking he was younger.

 

Sherlock appeared to be quite relaxed, at ease, and worldly – but there was a slight nervous jitter around his eyes and in his fingers that John noticed, even though Sherlock's hands lay folded in his lap.

 

Neither of the men had said anything up to this point. They had both been too busy examining each other and trying to size each other up.

 

John was the one who finally broke the silence.

 

"You know why I'm here?"

 

"Yes," Sherlock replied, and John was surprised once again. This time not by his youthful appearance, but by the warm, deep, rich sound of his voice, as well as by the bored tone he affected. "You're here to deflower me."

 

 _'Oh ho, a tough guy',_ John thought, rubbing his hands to himself. This evening was proving even more interesting and entertaining than he'd dared to hope.

 

A smile spread across John's lips. There was nothing he enjoyed more than a challenge – and a man like this, who wanted to portray himself as bored and impassive, despite his anxiety, truly presented an unhoped-for and very special challenge. To cut him down a bit, to break his resistance – to break _him_ – was going to be John's very special pleasure.

 

"Deflower?" John repeated, purposely choosing a mocking tone of voice while he shook his head with fake regret. "Dainty, blushing young maidens might be deflowered. Are you a dainty, blushing young maiden, Sherlock? I don't think so. You're a male whore. I'm not here to deflower you. I'm here to break you in." His smile became broader, revealing his even, white teeth to Sherlock. "Miss Adler auctioned off your arse to the highest bidder. I won, I paid, and now... you belong to me."

 

Sherlock gave him an uncertain look, his eyes slightly narrowed, as his fingers played nervously with the top button of his impeccably tailored shirt.

 

In the meantime, John made himself comfortable in the second chair, looking as if he had all the time in the world.

 

"And now take off your clothes ... please," John said – politely, but with a fiendish grin that was feared more than a death sentence in certain circles.

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

_**To be continued...** _

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

I was inspired by the following gifs made by mrs-mob-johnlocked:

 

<http://mrs-mob-johnlocked.tumblr.com/post/47382376565/mob-au-boss-john-bought-the-first-night-of>

 

The pics of “John” were taken from the movie “Wild Target”

 


	3. Compliments

**Chapter 3: Compliments**

 

I was inspired by the following gifs made by mrs mob johnlocked:

 

<http://mrs-mob-johnlocked.tumblr.com/post/47382376565/mob-au-boss-john-bought-the-first-night-of>

 

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Sherlock hesitated for a few seconds before seeming to come to a decision, straightening his shoulders, and rising out of his chair. John watched intently, curious as to what Sherlock was going to do, how he would act, but nothing happened. An odd look had come into Sherlock's eyes, which were peculiar, pale, and incredibly fascinating all at the same time. While a small part of John wondered what that look meant, a much larger part concluded that a quick reminder of why they were both there couldn't hurt.

 

"So..." John took a deep, relaxed breath. "Shall we begin?" he asked – still careful to remain polite.

 

Sherlock blinked slowly before finally lifting his hands. Although his posture – since he'd stood up, that is – could be termed stern and erect – practically rigid – the movements of his arms and hands were smooth, almost flowing. The first thing he did was to unbutton his jacket and pull back the lapels a bit. The sole purpose of this move, John surmised, was to show off his slender yet undoubtedly wiry upper body, which was still shielded from view by his tight, spotlessly white shirt.

 

"At your service," Sherlock said with a mixture of pride, indifference, and deference.

 

A broad, tooth-baring grin appeared on John's face.

 

"You're too generous," he replied, with a mocking tilt to his head.

 

Again that strange look for the length of a single heartbeat, and then Sherlock slipped out of his jacket the rest of the way, tossed it carelessly over the now-empty chair, and began to unbutton his shirt at a snail-like tempo.

 

"How old are you?" John wanted to satisfy his curiosity regarding the prostitute's true age – as well as seeing how close he was with his own guess.

 

"Twenty-two." The answer was given quickly and casually.

 

Too casually. Too well practiced. Too intent on delivering what the average trick wanted to hear.

 

John smirked.

 

"Nice try. But you're not that young. How old are you really?" He himself was thinking mid-twenties, maybe even older.

 

Sherlock had finished unbuttoning his shirt in the meantime, although he hadn't pulled it out of his trousers yet. His attention turned to his belt buckle. He fiddled around with it and opened it. Only then did he shrug and look up briefly.

 

"Why should that be of any relevance?" Sherlock replied with a distinct lack of interest.

 

The words he chose both surprised John and made him sit up and take note. At least this Sherlock wasn't entirely uneducated ... and he also didn't seem to be a typical hustler.

 

John leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and folded his hands in his lap. In the middle of the motion, he became aware that he was mirroring exactly Sherlock's earlier pose. He hadn't meant to, but now he completed the movement consciously and with full intent.

 

"Because I'm trying to understand how you could have stayed untouched for so long," John responded in a conversational tone.

 

Before Sherlock answered, he removed his belt from the loops of his trousers and laid it on the chair next to his jacket.

 

"I simply haven't been especially interested in this particular activity before." His tone of voice came across as both bored and derogatory.

 

John shot him a lustful smile. "And now – all of a sudden – you're interested in getting fucked up the arse?"

 

A faint but nevertheless traitorous blush spread over Sherlock's prominent cheekbones as he answered evasively, "I owe Miss Adler a favour."

 

"And you're using your virginity to repay this debt," John stated.

 

"Yes," Sherlock replied simply as he opened the button of his trousers, although not yet his flies.

 

John noticed, however, that a distant expression came into Sherlock's eyes the moment that one little word passed his lips – although his voice remained calm, collected, and businesslike. John respected people who knew how to keep their mind on business. But still ... that lost look ... it struck him somehow ... and somewhere close.

 

Annoyed at himself, John shook his head firmly. No! He needed to keep his mind on the business end of this arrangement. He needed to focus on the fact that he was about to have a great deal of fun; not on the emotional vulnerability of his playmate.

 

In his world, it was a good idea to keep one's feelings strictly separate from one's business dealings. He had to forget that fleeting, forlorn look in those beautiful, pale eyes. He'd come to the brothel for an evening's entertainment, not to find a new lover. And even if so – he'd never consider some whore for a position that demanded so much trust.

 

Emotions presented an unforeseeable risk factor. He'd found that out all too often in the recent past. A clean business deal, on the other hand – that was much more straightforward, and preferable to anything else in the end.

 

As long as he made sure to limit both himself and Sherlock to business tonight, it could be a highly stimulating experience for everyone. No complications. No emotional baggage.

 

John took a deep breath and turned his attention away from his inner monologue, directing it once again to his immediate surroundings.

 

"How long have you been working here? Six months?" he asked, in order to set his thoughts down another track.

 

"Seven months, eleven days." Sherlock got to work on his shirt and pulled it out of his trousers.

 

As he did so, John was able to catch a glimpse of Sherlock's pale upper body, which was hairless and as smooth as a marble sculpture. John's respiratory rate increased, and he licked his lips in anticipation. He loved lads who were as smooth and soft as a proverbial baby's bum.

 

"How come you're still a virgin then? I would have thought Miss Adler would offer up someone like you much sooner," John said, voicing his mild astonishment.

 

Sherlock bit his lower lip briefly before meeting John's searching eyes, even if he did so a bit evasively.

 

"Miss Adler thought... my virginity would command a much higher price if we held off on the auction for a while. She wanted to show me around a bit first ... let the guests have a chance to get to know me."

 

That sounded reasonable, John had to admit. Even if it was – in his expert opinion – still an unusually long time to wait. But who knew what went on in the head of the woman who ran the brothel?

 

His eyes followed along lazily as Sherlock fiddled with his cuff links, and as he did, he realised for the first time how slowly everything was proceeding. How long had it been since he'd told Sherlock to get undressed? Ten minutes? Fifteen?

 

How had Sherlock managed to distract him so well that he lost track of the time? How dare the tosser take so long with his striptease? Did he really think procrastinating was going to get him out of the inevitable? Oh, he was going to pay for his impudence! John chewed on the inside of his cheek. He already had one or two ideas – but later. Let Sherlock go on thinking his tactic was working.

 

"What do you do here all day long to earn your keep then? What have you been doing the past few months to drive your price up so far?" Now that was something that John really did want to know. After all, he was the only one of those present tonight who had never met Sherlock before. Everyone else seemed to have enjoyed him in one way or another already.

 

Sherlock finished with his cuff links and looked at John with a somewhat surprised expression.

 

"Blowjobs," he said straightforwardly. "I suck cock – and I'm extraordinarily good at it. The best in the house." He stared up at the ceiling, lost in thought for a moment, before looking at John again. His eyebrows curved up slightly. "I may even be the best in London," he stated in all seriousness.

 

A brief, amused laugh escaped John's lips, quite against his will. Then he shook his head, still chortling. "You are such a peacock."

 

The echo of a fleeting smile appeared on Sherlock's face. "Not at all. I'd say I was being rather modest, in fact. I could have said the best in southern England, but the data at my disposal is inadequate to form a well-founded opinion."

 

A chuckle lingered in John's throat. The sod really was entertaining, but he couldn't lose sight of his goal. He needed to show him who was in charge here. He couldn't allow the wanker to give such insolent responses – no matter how amusing they might be. It was high time to clip his wings a bit.

 

"I assume as a lowly cocksucker you haven't been earning enough to work off your debt with Miss Adler, am I right?" John used the indelicate term deliberately, in order to remind Sherlock of his place; not that he should get the idea into his head that they were equals or something.

 

Sherlock actually did flush at the word, but didn't answer.

 

John tilted his head from side to side, considering. "But... I'm sure that once you start spreading your legs for all the guests three or four times a day, you'll bring in a pretty penny for Miss Adler."

 

Sherlock glared at him as he painted a picture of his future fate.

 

He pressed together his lips and spat out, "Why not?" The anger and fury flashing in his eyes had almost found their way into his voice.

 

John exhaled slowly. The first traces of arousal flickered through his body. He'd always taken great enjoyment in breaking the feisty ones. And this young man was an extraordinary example of one such.

 

Their gazes met. In both pairs of eyes danced tiny flames, naked and dangerous.

 

With a sensuous motion, Sherlock let his shirt slide off his left shoulder. A small, hard, pink nipple appeared, causing John's fingers to twitch. That seductively peaked nipple was all but made to suck on, to lick and nibble. The blood in John's body seemed to grow hotter, his arousal and his anticipation increasing perceptibly. But outwardly, he remained calm. He'd made his plans already, and it was important that he keep the upper hand in the proceedings. He was the one in charge here, and the other man was going to comply.

 

"Just out of curiosity..." John picked up the thread of the conversation again. "You said before you'd never been interested previously... Still... how many offers have you received over the years? A hundred? More?"

 

He was met with a look of confusion. "Pardon?" he heard Sherlock ask.

 

John continued with a disbelieving smile: "You're not going to try and tell me that no one's ever tried to get into your pants ... the way you look..."

 

"Just a moment," Sherlock interrupted him, holding up a hand in front of himself as if to stop John's words; to block them and push them back. "Was that just an attempt to tell me I'm... good-looking?" Sherlock had narrowed his eyes, but they didn't look particularly suspicious; rather, they appeared completely empty.

 

Now it was John's turn to be confused. "You have looked in a mirror from time to time, I assume?"

 

Sherlock snorted. "There's no need to flatter me," he scoffed. "You bought me. I am to follow your instructions. We'd best simply get it over with. The sooner the better."

 

An unpleasant yet delighted smile played around the corners of John's lips. "Oh... suddenly in a hurry, are we?" John whispered in a low, sensual voice as he stood up. "What do you think you're doing? Trying to be the big shot?"

 

Sherlock was taller than him, but John could be quite intimidating when he wanted. More important and more dangerous men than this whore had backed down when he'd flipped his inner switch and given free rein to his mob boss personality. Most of his adversaries got scared and started to shake as if they'd been hit by a blast of icy air. John liked that reaction. He revelled in it, in fact.

 

For that reason, it was quite a surprise for him to see that Sherlock didn't even blink an eye as he approached. He didn't step back; rather, he maintained his position. Only his face paled a shade further, and his pupils expanded, as if he were aroused.

 

"Do I have to beat you into submission first?" John whispered with a fiendish grin.

 

Sherlock's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, but he remained standing where he was, not budging a single millimetre. "If you'd like, you can start with the riding crop."

 

"You like the riding crop?"

 

"I've had worse," Sherlock remarked flatly, and finally freed himself of the rest of his shirt.

 

John observed him calmly. Noted the pale, naked skin of his chest... the hard, alluring nipples... and the bruises in various shapes and colours scattered over his upper body, testifying of previous trysts.

 

"I see..." John said slowly. "I'm not the first person to lose their temper over your loose tongue."

 

"Obviously," Sherlock commented dryly. "And that's one of my additional assets. I'm not only brilliant when it comes to blow jobs. I can take quite a beating without making a fuss."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_Sherlock stood in the library, trying to orient himself. The method by which the books were arranged in each row of stacks was ridiculous. Although he'd only been at the university for a few weeks, he was determined to have a few words with the librarian on the subject._

_When he finally found the book he was looking for, he overheard low voices in the next row of stacks. The conversation was detrimental to his concentration, and he was about to clear his throat in irritation when he heard his own name dropped._

_"I don't see any problem with it. We have Sherlock Holmes now..."_

_Sherlock recognised the voice. Anderson. A faint smile flickered across his lips. His chance meeting with Anderson the day before had really been quite ... delicious. Maybe they'd get together again. Sherlock hoped so, at least._

_"Holmes? What the hell does he have to do with my girlfriend being a beast and refusing to go out with me on Friday?" the other voice responded, a male that Sherlock didn't recognise._

_"Oh, pretty much everything," Anderson drawled with audible enjoyment. "My cousin went to college with him. The things I could tell you..."_

_Sherlock frowned in consternation. College? He'd enjoyed it, to be honest. Even if the lessons hadn't been especially challenging, he'd never lacked for extracurricular_ 'distractions' _. He'd actually been quite popular amongst the other boys. Even if most of their assignations had been rather superficial, Sherlock hadn't yet given up hope of finding a regular boyfriend. The one special boy with whom he'd want to go further than he had with all the others. He knew that the wish for a_ 'soul mate' _was ridiculously sentimental, but that must be the legacy of his mother's genes._

_"Make it quick, Anderson. I don't have all day," the other boy growled._

_Anderson laughed softly. "All right, all right. Here it is: Holmes sucks cock like a world-class champion."_

_The blood shot into Sherlock's cheeks at Anderson's crude words, but he kept listening, his ears growing hotter by the moment._

_"Okay, Anderson. Why are you telling me this? I - am – not – gay."_

_"So? Neither am I. But I'm telling you, the next time your jam tart's got a migraine and won't give it up for you, and you're sick and tired of your own hand, Holmes isn't a bad alternative. And he's cheaper than any date with a bird. He'll do it for a cheap bottle of booze and a fag for afters. Oh yeah – and you don't even need a johnny. He swallows. Everything. Down to the last drop."_

_The other boy gasped loudly. "You're shitting me!" he hissed._

_"No, honestly! All you have to do is pay him a couple of compliments and he'll drop to his knees for you."_

_"Compliments?"_

_"Yeah, you know, the usual. How pretty he is, how gorgeous his eyes are, how silky his hair is..." Anderson listed off in a bored tone._

_"Pretty? That freak? The skinny one? With his toff clothes and skin like a slab of cheese? He'd never buy me trying to drop compliments on him."_

_"He will," Anderson contradicted him smugly. "He'll swallow them hook, line and sinker. Thinks he's irresistible or something, the stuck-up twit. My cousin said he was like that at college too." There was silence for a moment, and then Anderson continued: "And I'll tell you one thing: if you don't want him on Friday, I'll corner him for myself."_

_"Randy then, are we?" the other boy said, still sceptical._

_"And how!" Anderson agreed. "Once he gets going, you won't care if that tongue's attached to a fanny or a freak."_

_"In that case..." The other boy was still hesitant. "But... won't he want me to..."_

_"Don't worry about that. He usually gets off while he's doing you. You don't need to be careful or anything either. You can fuck him right down the throat. Doesn't matter if you hurt him a bit too. He likes that, like a good little slut."_

_The other boy laughed softly, and then they left._

_Sherlock listened to their steps receding, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. He didn't leave the library until several hours later – his eyes red and his cheeks as white as a ghost._

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

**_To be continued..._ **

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**


	4. Carpe Diem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A spectacular blow job, a riding crop, a startling confession and a flashback.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation by the talented [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/profile)

 

**Chapter 4: Carpe Diem**

 

I was inspired by the following gifs by mrs mob johnlocked:

 

<http://mrs-mob-johnlocked.tumblr.com/post/47382376565/mob-au-boss-john-bought-the-first-night-of>

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

"All right..." John said, drawing the words out. "Let's get started. On your knees," he ordered. Sherlock obeyed without hesitation. In a single, flowing movement, he fell to his knees, bringing his mouth to the same height as John's crotch. John grabbed a handful of the dark curls with one hand and pulled the now docile young man's face closer to his body – closer to where he wanted him.

 

"You know what to do, I assume?"

 

"Oh yes..." Sherlock replied, with a long, drawn-out sigh. His hands spanned John's hips while his gaze remained steadfastly fixed on the slight bulge that showed through John's trousers. His face pressed closer and closer without needing any further encouragement, until his lips were in contact with the smooth material. John's eyes closed of their own volition as Sherlock's lips parted and his warm, moist breath penetrated the cloth. John's cock swelled a little more under the unexpectedly gentle treatment, showing its outline ever more clearly through his clothing and making it easy for Sherlock to gauge its position and press hot, open-mouthed kisses directly over his nascent erection.

 

John was quite taken with it. He enjoyed being stimulated and teased like this. The tosser's mouth wasn't just cocky; it was talented. He must not have been exaggerating when he'd said he had extraordinary abilities in this area. Fuck – that hot mouth felt unbelievably good!

 

His head fell back in pleasure, but before long he brought it up again so he could look down. Sherlock's eyes were closed, the lids fluttering slightly. Then, as if he felt that he was being observed, he opened his eyes and met John's gaze without so much as a hitch in his motions. John was lost for a moment in those midnight-black pupils, blown open so wide they seemed to fill John's entire field of vision. Only a narrow ring of pale, blue-green iris encircled the almost bottomless darkness.

 

Sherlock's lids fluttered again, lowered, and remained closed this time.

 

Sherlock's efforts now became more intense, more serious, lost some of their playful, teasing character. His lips tightened ever more around John's rapidly stiffening cock, which was beginning to feel increasingly uncomfortable in its prison of cotton. It was like a monochrome symphony of black and white that offered itself up to John's eyes. The dark curls merged with the black material of John's trousers, the pallor of Sherlock's skin presented a stunning contrast to the dark lashes quivering against his cheeks... The only splash of colour was the red, peccant mouth whose impetuousness left wet spots on the black canvas of John's trousers.

 

With this image in his head, indelibly imprinted on his retinas, John closed his eyes. The pressure of those plush lips on his erection was perfect and so seductive that John almost didn't want anything more than to ram himself deep down into that long, white – nearly swanlike – throat.

 

It cost him a great deal of willpower to turn his thoughts away from that desire. Although he had no doubt that a climax in that manner would be absolutely spectacular, that wasn't the reason he was here. He hadn't written out a cheque for such a ridiculous amount for a quickie blowjob. When John felt the light scratch of fingernails on his testicles through the material and a hand fumbling for his flies, he decided this was the point where he was going to end this game – where he _had_ to end it.

 

His hand, still buried in the dark hair, gripped some of the curls roughly, pulled, and tore Sherlock away so powerfully that he fell, landing on his back.

 

John had actually almost counted on Sherlock jumping back up, fractious and feisty and hissing like a wounded cat, casting aspersions at the rough treatment, but instead he remained where he lay. At John's feet.

 

Sherlock's chest rose and fell markedly, a light flush spread from his unearthly cheekbones down across his neck all the way to his shoulders. His mouth hung open, as if he were truly breathless with arousal. John had to give him kudos for the superb acting job, until he noticed the clear distension of his trousers. He raised an eyebrow. Perhaps it wasn't an act after all? Could his arousal be real?

 

Astounding and... unexpected. He could work with _this_.

 

His lips shaped themselves into a sly, contemptuous grin.

 

"You didn't say you got off on giving head," John scolded him. "Now I really am going to have to use the riding crop. There's no way around it, I'm afraid," he said in a tone of fake chagrin. "You'll have to be punished – so that you learn not to lie to me again."

 

Sherlock didn't move a muscle. He continued to lie there quietly, watching through half-lidded eyes as John went to the sideboard and took out the riding crop.

 

When John returned, he stood at the level of Sherlock's crotch. He slipped the loop of the riding crop over his left wrist, closing his fingers around the handle in a relaxed yet firm grip. He hefted the crop to get a feel for it, admiring its high-quality workmanship.

 

"Has a good feel to it," he murmured, half to himself, before turning his full attention to Sherlock once again.

 

Sherlock's legs had fallen slightly apart, and John tapped the end of the crop against the swelling between them, eliciting a choked groan.

 

"Do you always get off on it like this?" John asked, once again using very formal, polite intonation.

 

"Not always," Sherlock admitted, even as his hips jerked upwards to press against the crop. A languid attempt to seek further friction and stimulation.

 

John immediately pulled the crop away, directing it now toward Sherlock's bare chest. He tapped the leather tongue at the end – also called the tress – against Sherlock's nipple several times, causing Sherlock to gasp breathlessly for air, before moving on to his actual goal, allowing the tress to rest against Sherlock's cheek in a parody of a gentle, loving caress.

 

Sherlock's respiration had increased during the course of the crop's journey across his body, and his mouth still hung slightly agape, as if he couldn't get enough oxygen. His eyes had fallen shut again, and as soon as he felt the small yet threatening scrap of leather on his cheek, he began to stretch his neck and rub languorously against it, like a cat begging to be petted.

 

"You're not just putting on a show, are you? You really like the riding crop, if I'm not entirely mistaken," John said with wonder laced with a trace of satisfaction. "This really turns you on."

 

"Sometimes," Sherlock answered. "Sometimes it's quite... _good_." With a long sigh, he stretched and arched his upper body. "Do you want me now?" he asked in a soft, deep voice. "Perhaps on the bed?"

 

John acted as if he were giving serious consideration to the offer, but then he shook his head with a smile so sweet and friendly it was frightening.

 

"You know what? You were a tad more expensive than I expected. So..." He wet his lips. "I'm not really interested in moving things along in too much of a hurry. I think we should take our time, enjoy things _. Carpe diem_ and all that. Or... what do you think?" He slapped the leather tress lightly against Sherlock's cheek before sliding it over Sherlock's plump lips. A rosy pink tongue peeked out from between the red lips, and Sherlock licked the little leather tab playfully until it gleamed with moisture.

 

John's erection pulsed at the sight; his clothes were probably stained with a wet spot inside by now. John had to concentrate on breathing in and out through his nose several times in order to regain control.

 

"What are you waiting for, _sir_?" Sherlock asked with a hint of mockery. "You can start your _carpe diem_ any time now."

 

"You can take that _'sir'_ and shove it! No one needs that shite," John declared crossly, before lowering his voice to a threatening whisper and continuing: "I'm waiting for you to fucking want it. I'm waiting for you to _need_ it, to _beg_ for it. To _plead_ with me to slam my cock up your tight little virgin arse. I want to hear you beg me to give it to you but good. To fuck you into the ground. Hard and fast and without mercy."

 

John had drawn certain conclusions from his observations of Sherlock, and counted on his words eliciting a hefty shudder, or at least a long, drawn-out moan. Based on Sherlock's behaviour up to now, that or a similar reaction should have been the result of this type of provocation.

 

But he'd never been as wrong in his life as he was with this unpredictable wanker. For, to John's amazement, Sherlock's sultry-smoky bedroom eyes switched over to a sharp, alert, and calculating expression from one moment to the next.

 

"Interesting..." Sherlock finally said pensively.

 

"What's so interesting?" John heard himself ask, completely bewildered.

 

"You don't want me to submit. You don't want me to play a role. You don't want me to act something out. You want..." Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and he appeared to be somewhat at a loss.

 

"I want _you_ to _want_ it," John finished his sentence, his voice low and dark. "I want you to want _me_." The shadow of a fiendish smile played around the edges of his mouth.

 

Sherlock considered the words calmly and deliberately. "I wonder how you expect to achieve that," he finally remarked, his scepticism cutting.

 

John's smile deepened. "Let me worry about that. You can start by sucking me. Then at least your tongue will be busy doing something useful for once."

 

Sherlock was brazen enough to grace him with a sneering grin. "Yes, _sir_."

 

That earned him a crack of the riding crop across his chest. Despite the fact that it had been a rather hard blow, Sherlock took it without making a single sound, neither a lusty moan nor a pained sob.

 

"I warned you," John said coolly. "Keep a lid on that mouth of yours and don't try to play me for a fool. You'll regret it in the end. I know how to arouse unquenchable desire, but I also know how to cause unbearable pain. There's a good reason they call me _'Doc'_. It's amazing how often those couple of semesters of medical school have paid off. Whether it's breaking a couple of fingers or a leg... or stimulating a prostate until the subject is so aroused they start crying like a baby."

 

"I'll have to see that before I believe it," Sherlock responded impassively, although he did sound curious. He sat up and crossed his legs loosely over each other, resting his elbows on his knees.

 

John shook his head. He would have broken down and started laughing – a giggle was just waiting to break out of his throat, quite against his will, and had been for some time – but that was out of the question at the moment.

 

"You really are a rude little whore," he chided Sherlock with a half smile.

 

All of a sudden, Sherlock appeared bored. "Tell me something I don't know."

 

An idea shot into John's head, and he smiled his most friendly – and at the same time most disturbing – smile.

 

"You're gorgeous," he said deliberately.

 

And now he'd succeeded in hitting Sherlock's sore spot. Sherlock flushed right up to his hair line and turned his face away.

 

"Don't..." he murmured with an odd mixture of anger and pain. "Please... don't." He took a deep breath before looking up at John again. His voice had taken on a hard, metallic echo. "I won't kiss you, and in return you don't try and flatter me. There's absolutely no need for that. You don't need to _convince_ me through the use of any _pleasantries_. As you so accurately stated earlier: I'm no _blushing, young maiden_. This is a deal. A business transaction. No more, no less."

 

John nodded in understanding. Still... the young man was odd. Why did he have such an aversion to compliments? Everyone liked to hear something flattering once in a while. On the other hand, he was absolutely right: this was business. Not some soppy love story.

 

"Back to business then. Fine with me," John said matter-of-factly. "I believe I told you to suck me. Why is it taking so long? Who do I have to sleep with around here to get what I paid for?"

 

It was a very weak, very poor attempt at humour. But this time his words had the desired effect. The faint shadow of a smile curled the corner of Sherlock's lips for a brief moment, and the tension bled out of his shoulders. He lifted himself up out of his seated position onto his hands and knees – again with the same effortless elegance John had admired earlier – and crawled over to John.

 

This manner of locomotion had always appeared absurd – or at least extremely obsequious - on every other man John had known. But not on Sherlock. Now, it reminded him of the feline movements of a panther, tracking its prey with animalistic instinct in order to pounce at just the right moment.

 

This hint of danger that triggered a gentle prickling on the back of John's neck, releasing a shot of adrenaline into his bloodstream, was just what he needed to make his blood boil once again. Mike had reproached him often enough in their youth for being an adrenaline junkie. He'd used to deny it, but since then he'd stopped his protests and begun to face facts. His love for taking risks and thrill-seeking had almost ended in disaster a few times, but he couldn't help it. It was simply stronger than he was. The tingling in his neck spread down between his legs, and he felt his cock, which had deflated a bit during their discussion - if you could even call it that – begin to fill with blood again.

 

In the meantime, Sherlock was already kneeling in front of him and had quite unceremoniously opened John's trousers and pulled out John's penis with clever fingers that testified of a great deal of experience and practice.

 

Sherlock's hands were surprisingly cool, and quite soft. Nevertheless, his touch sent little waves of heat through John's cock as it stirred to life. Sherlock inspected the half-hard erection in his hands with that same pointed, calculating intensity, making John feel like an insect under a microscope. The only thing he didn't know was whether he was supposed to feel like a parasite or some special, rare and exotic species.

 

"You're not circumcised," Sherlock noted in a neutral tone.

 

"No," John agreed. "Problem?"

 

The scientific gaze morphed into one of admiration and fascination. "Quite the opposite," Sherlock said, licking his lips. "More foreskin, more fun." His eyes fell shut in contentment, as if he were really experiencing pleasure and bliss. His mouth came closer, and he began to drop little kisses all over John's rapidly swelling erection. In between those, he playfully flicked the tip of his tongue over the hot, dry skin.

 

It felt amazing.

 

Sherlock was truly the unsurpassed master of this kind of sexual foreplay. His tongue was soft and malleable, yet firm and certain of its goal. He used just the right amount of pressure to fan the flames of desire even higher.

 

Just when John thought he couldn't stand the sensual, erotic torture a single second longer, Sherlock's lips parted and, in a single motion, he took John's erection all the way into his mouth.

 

John's knees went just a bit wobbly, and a groan originating deep in his chest made it all the way to his mouth before dying out. Not everyone had mastered this particular technique – God, the tosser was really extraordinarily talented! Everything in John was screaming for someone to start to move, but Sherlock kept perfectly still. John felt the stretched lips, soft and hot against his pubic hair, the moist pressure of the tongue on the underside of his shaft, and the contractions of Sherlock's throat muscles around his swollen glans whenever he swallowed.

 

John bit his lower lip in order not to moan again. He had to clench his fists at the second swallow. The third swallow had him closing his eyes. At the fourth swallow... he had to exert all his willpower not to lose control and thrust repeatedly into that deep, narrow throat.

 

Sherlock swallowed one more time, pressing himself even closer to John's groin, taking that much more of John's hard length in, until for one crazy moment, John fancied he could feel Sherlock's heartbeat at the tip of his penis.

 

A deep, dark desire rushed through John's veins, along with a healthy dose of adrenaline, and quite against his will, his tightly clenched hands opened, his fingers seeking and finding their way to Sherlock's head, where they slid through the dark curls in an unsually gentle gesture.

 

Sherlock made a low noise that sounded like a satisfied hum and relaxed his passive, almost rigid posture, in order to move his mouth up and down along the stiff shaft. John watched, his mouth hanging slightly open, as Sherlock's plump lips glided over his erection in an almost perfect rhythm. A surge of desire built up in John's lower body, and he had to bite his lips in order to suppress a shameless moan.

 

But as Sherlock's fingernails scraped gently across John's balls, he came back to his senses. Or at least enough to grab Sherlock's shoulder roughly and shove him back. It took quite a lot of willpower to remove that sinfully talented mouth from his cock, but if he hadn't done so, he would undoubtedly have been tempted to simply shoot his load down that divinely deep throat.

 

"That's enough... more than enough," John said, registering with some annoyance how breathless and hoarse his voice sounded. The small, smug smirk that played around the edges of Sherlock's lips only added to his irritation. He'd exposed himself in front of this whore. That hadn't happened to him in a very long time.

 

"Get your clothes off and get on the bed," he ordered, more curtly than he'd intended. But at least Sherlock obeyed without any more cheeky comments.

 

As Sherlock stood up and took off his trousers, John took a deep breath and tried to stuff his stubborn erection back into his pants. His penis didn't like that idea at all, but John remained insistent, and finally his body bowed to his will, and he began to soften.

 

It was still highly unpleasant to zip up his flies and close the button; the feeling of constriction also wasn't one of his favourites, but the complete lack of understanding on Sherlock's face that resulted from his actions made the inconvenience more than worth it.

 

As soon as Sherlock realised that he'd been caught staring, he sank his eyes in delightful confusion and let his open trousers slide down to the floor. He wasn't wearing any underwear, yet he turned away before John could get a good look at him, and stayed standing where he was for a moment, uncertain.

 

"What are you waiting for?" John asked briskly, but not unkindly. "Get up on the bed and lie on your back."

 

Sherlock followed that order silently as well, climbing onto the bed and lying back with his long limbs stretched out across the sheets. Once he was ready, he lay there quietly, watching John with a look of anticipation. But the uncertainty had returned to his gaze, and John decided not to rush his inspection of this now completely nude body. It might be that he was the first client Sherlock had ever presented himself to completely naked. He wanted to give him some time to regain his composure, gather himself, and become accustomed to it. That might have sounded oddly sentimental, but if he wanted to stick to his plan and succeed in getting Sherlock to _want_ to be penetrated, then he didn't really have any other choice at the moment. He simply had to ignore that other stupid little stirring fluttering through his heart, and nip it in the bud.

 

Sherlock's bare, naked body stood out exquisitely against the dark red, silken sheets. John's eyes raked over the smooth chest with the small, seductively hard nipples, down to the gentle dip of his navel, all the way to his groin. His eyes stopped between Sherlock's legs, which were splayed slightly apart. Sherlock was shaved clean. There wasn't a single hair to be seen, just soft, smooth, pale skin. At the sight, John was hit with the longing to lave his tongue across the soft, smooth skin over and over again. To lick it and taste it and hear Sherlock whimpering with arousal. He swallowed a little too hard in order to override the desire. He had other plans for Sherlock's body.

 

His gaze focused now on Sherlock's genitals. His likewise clean-shaven testicles hung full and heavy between two long, lanky legs, and a fleshy, half-hard penis rested on a flat stomach that was gently rising and falling with the rhythm of Sherlock's breaths.

  
"How did you prepare yourself?" John asked. If Sherlock had already done certain things, it would spare him doing them now.

 

A blank look appeared on Sherlock's face. "Prepare?"

 

John's left eyebrow decided this was a good time to get in on the act. "Yes... _prepare_. Have you stretched yourself at all, or at least used some lubricant?"

 

"No," Sherlock answered simply. "I used an enema earlier, but that's it," he added in a languorous manner.

 

The complete frankness, bordering on naive, almost made John giggle again, but he was manfully able to suppress it.

 

"Your pillow talk is horrible," he said with a grin. "Definitely not one of your more striking gifts."

 

Sherlock shrugged. "I could have told you that at the beginning," he replied, unconcerned.

 

John shook his head, both reproving and indulgent. "But why didn't you prepare yourself at all? I really would have thought that Miss Adler-"

 

"Most clients wouldn't have let that stop them," Sherlock interrupted him, his voice calm and composed. "The more I screamed and… _cried_ , the more satisfactory it would have been for them. Pain, blood, and tears are all part of the genuine deflowering experience," he said coldly, almost disparagingly, and then paused for a moment before continuing in the same calm manner as before. "That's why I decided not to waste my time with preparing myself. I simply wanted to get it over with." He stopped again. His gaze flickered to the floor before he looked up again, directly into John's eyes. "I never expected anyone who would be so... I never expected anyone ... like _you_." A gentle expression, full of wonder, entered the pale, bright eyes.

 

A brief bark of humourless laughter escaped John's lips. "I'm not a very nice person," he told Sherlock coldly. "You shouldn't make the mistake of putting people on a pedestal or making heroes out of them. Heroes don’t exist."

 

"I didn't say I thought you were a _nice_ person," Sherlock contradicted him. "You want to ... break me ... destroy me... like any other client. But your method is much more... interesting; fascinating. I am truly impressed."

 

"What an honour," John replied, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

 

"It is," Sherlock confirmed matter-of-factly, taking John's words at face value without acknowledging the sarcasm. "It's not easy to impress me."

 

Once again, John sought refuge in shaking his head. "I really don't know why I let you talk so much," he mused.

 

"Oh, that's easy. _You'_ re also impressed by _me_. You're just as fascinated by me as I am by you," Sherlock explained, once again with that unapologetic frankness and an expectant – and strangely trusting – look.

 

Silence fell over the two men following Sherlock's last remark. Sherlock was apparently waiting for a response from John, but John wasn't willing to give him one.

 

Finally, John moved out of his staid pose and stepped over to the sideboard.

 

"Just keep your mouth shut now and spread your legs," he growled at Sherlock. "I'm getting the lube."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_"What a darling rascal," Aunt Adelaide said, stroking Sherlock's hair. Sherlock decided he liked her. "The mother's dead?" She turned to Sylvia Holmes as if Sherlock had ceased to exist. Sherlock immediately rescinded his decision to like her. When Mama Sylvia nodded, Aunt Adelaide continued in a nasal twang, "It's probably the best thing that hussy could do. Really, Sylvia, it's extremely generous of you to take him into your home. Sherrinford worships him, of course."_

_"_ We _'re going to adopt him," Mama Sylvia replied in a queer tone of voice. It was polite, but still managed to sound like a reprimand._

_"At least someone inherited the Holmes’ cheekbones," Uncle Mortimer rumbled, stirring a generous serving of cream into his tea while glancing longingly at the Whisky on the side table._

_Sherlock glanced carefully at Mycroft. The derogatory words about his mother hurt, but he swallowed the pain and the tears that threatened to spill over. He knew by now that Mycroft didn't like such blatant displays of emotion, and Sherlock would do anything to get even the slightest sign of approval from Mycroft. It embarrassed him too that he was the only one of the two brothers who ever received compliments from guests on his appearance. He liked to hear them – especially because his mother used to say similar things to him, and he missed her – but he always had a guilty conscience over the fact that Mycroft was envious of him because of it._

_Oh, Mycroft never said anything or let on in any way, but Sherlock could tell. It was just one of those things he knew. It was easy for him to see through people. He knew when the maid was lying about the whereabouts of the silver dessert spoon, or that it wasn't exactly the truth when the gardener said he was happily married. Sherlock didn't understand yet why no one else could see these things, but he did understand that it was better not to blurt out all the things he knew._

_And so... he simply knew that Mycroft was envious of his looks and the compliments he received on account of them. Sherlock didn't think he himself was anything special. He found Mycroft much better looking, with his smooth, straight hair (his own curls made him look too girlish) and his freckles; more interesting, too. He secretly wished he had freckles, and didn't understand why everyone felt sorry for Mycroft because of them, and why he had so many lotions and creams in his bath that were meant to get rid of the supposed blemishes. Luckily, the cosmetics didn't do much, and the freckles remained where they were – much to Sherlock's joy._

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

**_To be continued..._ **

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

[SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/profile) made a fanfiction quiz! It’s wonderful and funny and entertaining! Try it!

 

<http://swissmissing.tumblr.com/post/112527045870/amazing-banner-by-frodosweetstuff-do-you-check>

(P.S. If clicking on the links doesn't work, paste this into your browser: <https://www.proprofs.com/quiz-school/story.php?title=test-your-sherlock-fan-fiction-iq>)


	5. Foreplay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the title says... some very long foreplay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation by the talented [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/profile)
> 
> Another chapter for your enjoyment. But don’t get too excited. It’s just because this one is so short and nothing new happens (compared to the original short version).

I was inspired by the following gifs by mrs mob johnlocked:

 

<http://mrs-mob-johnlocked.tumblr.com/post/47382376565/mob-au-boss-john-bought-the-first-night-of>

**Chapter 5: Foreplay**

 

 

John had taken a jar of vaseline from the sideboard and now returned with it to the bed where Sherlock was lying, to all appearances calmly waiting.

 

However, the slight, involuntary twitches in his eyelids – which John couldn't fail to notice this time either – undid all of his attempts at appearing cool and impassive, betraying his nervousness to any observant viewer.

 

When John told him to pull up his knees and place the soles of his feet on the mattress, he complied without a single word or derisive comment.

 

Just then, he gave John the impression of a noble, slightly overbred, nervous racing horse. One false move and he would kick and make a break for it. John didn't have much experience with horses, but he knew that Sherlock was going to have to rid himself of his nervousness if he wanted to have any fun with him tonight. In an attempt to calm him, John laid his left hand on Sherlock's knee.

 

"Relax. And don't forget to breathe," John advised him in a low, soothing voice. "I'm not going to hurt you on purpose."

 

Sherlock followed these instructions without objection as well – or at least he tried to. His chest rose and fell with the rhythm of his deep, even (or at least an approximation thereof) breaths. When John moved his left hand from its soothing position on Sherlock's knee to drag it up the inside of his thigh, he could feel the tense muscles there relaxing a bit under his fingers.

 

"I hope for your sake that you didn't lie to me about the enema. It might be that you find yourself enjoying the pleasure of licking my fingers clean ... _after_ I've prepared you thoroughly," John remarked in a neutral tone, all the while letting his hand move further and further up Sherlock's thigh until it reached its goal and the tips of his fingers brushed the clean-shaven scrotum.

 

Sherlock completely failed at disguising, much less suppressing, the ensuing deep gasp for air.

 

"The thought that I'm the first one to touch you here ... right _here_ ..." John mused.

 

That thought – as well as Sherlock's reactions to his virtually chaste touch – had absolutely no right to have such a stimulating effect on John's libido. John didn't know if his racing heart and the initial sexual rush overtaking his brain were good signs or bad ones at this point. He generally needed much stronger stimuli to achieve the degree of arousal he was experiencing at the moment.

 

John's fingers danced playfully over the smooth testes, which had already tightened a bit and pulled in closer to Sherlock's body, broadcasting a clear signal of his arousal. But John didn't stop there, instead letting his fingers slide lower – over the scrotum to the soft skin of the perineum, which was slightly damp with perspiration.

 

Using gentle pressure, John massaged the delicate area, watching as even more tension leeched out of Sherlock's cramped muscles. The minimal counterpressure that John felt against his fingers told him clearly how much Sherlock was enjoying his touch. John took the opportunity to rub a bit more firmly, luring a soft yet deep, throaty groan from the other man. The vibrations reverberated in John's own groin.

 

A shudder ran through the highly desirable body laid out before him ... completely defenceless and at his mercy. A desire to see those plump, red lips contorted in a scream flared up briefly in John. But he didn't feed that fire, and didn't even really have a very strong longing for it at the moment. Oddly enough, the sight of those thighs, trembling slightly, was plenty, and he spent a few minutes stroking Sherlock's balls and the soft, tender skin of his perineum. Sherlock shivered several times in the course of John's caresses, until he arched unambiguously into the touch. But it wasn't in the usual shameless manner that John was used to from all the other men he'd ever had stretched out beneath him. It was a more hesitant, almost shy motion of his hips ... demanding and uncertain at the same time.

 

An even greater wave of desire coursed through John at the sight. The urge to simply _take_ this body right now, to _conquer_ it, to _use_ it as an outlet for his lust, was overwhelming. Quickly, as if he'd burnt himself, he pulled his hand back from the warm, soft skin and was forced yet again to take deep breaths through his nose in order to dial back his hunger and appetite to a more manageable level.

 

_Not yet... not quite yet..._

 

"When are you going to get on with it?" Sherlock asked, making John aware that he had been idle too long for Sherlock's taste and that he was being criticised for his forbearance. But Sherlock sounded so hoarse and breathless that an amused grin spread across John's face despite the impudence.

 

"You just can't wait, can you?" John teased him with a lecherous smile. "We still have all night... but since you seem to be _gagging_ for it..." He opened the lid of the vaseline and dipped his left index finger into the greasy substance. "I think we can indulge you."

 

He carefully brought his slicked-up finger into contact with Sherlock's still virginal anus, drawing slow circles around the puckered skin of the firmly closed opening. He felt the warmth emanating from Sherlock's body as well as the involuntary twitches of the tense muscles and the first signs of yielding as an inevitable consequence of the gentle, constant stimulation of the sensitive nerves which were present in such great abundance in this area.

 

Sherlock wasn't the only one – John also exhibited an involuntary reaction, licking his lips greedily. The faint, almost ecstatic twitches that his efforts had unleashed in Sherlock fanned the flames of his desire even higher. His blood rushed hotly through his veins, gathered in a glowing ball in his abdomen, and sank lower into his groin, where it manifested as an insistent throbbing.

 

John drew one last circle on Sherlock's heated skin before finally pressing the tip of his finger directly over the narrow, convulsively twitching ring of muscle.

 

"Relax," John told him, gently but firmly. "Don't forget to breathe... it will be easier if you press back against my finger a bit."

 

Sherlock, surprisingly, followed the instructions as meekly as a lamb, and John watched, holding his breath, as his finger slid practically without effort into the enticing body. Just as John was about to congratulate himself ... just as John thought the worst part was over and the rest would be child's play... Sherlock gasped for air, and every single muscle in his body seized up.

 

John held himself completely still, not moving his finger a single millimetre more. Even if he'd wanted to, he couldn't have, as Sherlock was now incredibly tight, having virtually snapped himself shut like a prudish oyster. At the thought of that virginal tightness awaiting him, his neglected cock awakened promptly from the lethargy it had temporarily sunk into during the course of the lengthy preparations, reporting its interest and excitement.

 

Sherlock's breaths were shallow and uneven, and John waited a moment to see if he would be able to calm himself without help. However, when that didn't seem to be the case, John asked in a purposefully even tone, "Does it hurt?"

 

Sherlock shook his head. "Not really..." The words seemed to have difficulty getting past his lips. "It's just... unpleasant."

 

He seemed to be ashamed of this admission, so John tried to soothe him again. "That will pass... but you really have to relax, or you're going to end up hurting yourself more than I will. You're so bloody tight... If you keep clenching down like this, you're going to crush my finger."

 

The playful complaint – although not far removed from the truth – earned him a half-hearted chuckle. Then Sherlock sighed, which at least took with it part of the tension in his body, leaving John once again able to move his finger.

 

Gingerly, he bent his finger slightly inside the narrow passage surrounding him, and Sherlock sighed again.

 

"Just lean back and enjoy the ride – and if you want another go-round... just scream," John suggested with a lascivious glint in his eye. After a moment, he added dryly, "For Queen and Country."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Half an hour later, the light in the room reflected off a wet spot on Sherlock's stomach, every movement and every breath causing the muscles there to shiver with tension.

 

The wet spot was the result of a near-constant stream of clear drops of pre-come flowing out of the narrow slit of his unbearably hard cock, now flushed a deep red due to the blood engorging the erectile tissue.

 

The skin of his face and chest were also perceptibly reddened, his nipples had contracted and were just as hard and erect as his penis, and were begging just as desperately for release. Everything in John was screaming to give him that release with his mouth, lips, and teeth, but at the same time the sight was so mesmerising that he didn't want to interrupt his current actions at any price, not even to fulfill that desire. There was something hypnotic about Sherlock's body, which seemed to be trapped in a neverending cycle of jerky breaths and shudders.

 

Sherlock's bent legs were spread obscenely wide, his thighs were quivering, and his forehead and chest – which was rising and falling in rhythm with his strenuous breaths – were gleaming with perspiration. The lids over his fascinating, pale eyes had fallen shut quite some time ago, fluttering once in a while as gently as the wings of a captive butterfly.

 

Guttural rattles and hoarse moans were all that passed the barely parted lips. White teeth dug deep into the plump lower lip and bit it until it was as swollen and red as his erection. In John's opinion, those full, red lips were absolutely perfect – although they would look even more perfect wrapped around his own hard shaft, which was likewise slippery and wet with desire.

 

John had told Sherlock some time ago to leave his hands beside him on the bed and not to touch himself. Sherlock had also been very good about it for a while, but now his willpower seemed to be all used up, as his fingers were gripping the expensive sheets like claws – apparently in a desperate attempt to follow John's orders.

 

It was exactly this desperation and the obvious effort that it cost Sherlock to comply with John's wishes that aroused John. There was nothing that could compare to the feeling of power that flowed through him at moments like this. To subjugate someone – another body – to _his_ will gave John a _kick_ that no drug in existence could even come close to achieving. Watching Sherlock's inner struggle – against the overpowering longing to touch himself, to wrap his fingers around his hard cock – was better than any aphrodisiac for John.

 

It was a sight for the gods, and John paused for a moment to bear proper witness to this... _display_.

 

And to think, it only took two fingers and a little vaseline to transform this arrogant wanker into a horny, quivering pile of desire...

 

Thanks to the extensive foreplay, John's fingers didn't meet any resistance any more. They slid in and out of Sherlock's hole in a steady rhythm without any effort at all. Every third or fourth pass, John tried to brush the little swelling of Sherlock's prostate gently with the tips of his fingers. Sherlock's initial reaction to this treatment had been rather modest, but the effect seemed to increase every time. His moans sounded ever more breathless and passionate as his body opened itself ever wider... became ever more willing, compliant, and demanding. John felt the suction and pressure around his fingers becoming stronger... as Sherlock's body tried to pull him in further, to take in more of him, to keep him inside... as deep as possible.

 

John plunged his fingers harder and deeper than before into the willing body, which sucked him in immediately, like hot, wet silk. He gave in to the suction and didn't pull his fingers out, instead leaving them where they were. His fingertips felt once more for the slight swelling in Sherlock's most intimate place, and then tapped out a light, quick staccato pattern on the overwrought nerve endings of Sherlock's prostate, causing him to cry out with lust and pain. Even more pre-come dripped out of Sherlock's neglected and stiffly upright erection, further staining his otherwise flawless skin.

 

"Are you ready for a third finger?" John murmured with a fiendish smile.

 

Sherlock nodded wildly.

 

"Do you _want_ a third finger?" John asked, enjoying prolonging Sherlock's sweet torture.

 

"GOD, YES! DO IT **_NOW_**!" Sherlock cried out. He looked close to tears as a result of his unquenched desire.

 

"Mmmhhh..." John said, and immediately stopped moving his fingers – which were still embedded deep in Sherlock's body – acting as if he had to think about Sherlock's desperate outburst. "Mmmhh... no. I don't think so," he finally said, pulled his fingers out of the soft, warm opening, and wiped them on the inside of Sherlock's trembling thighs with a graceless gesture.

 

"I'm very sorry," he said with a fake smile. "Wrong answer." He got up from the bed and watched Sherlock with a gaze that was heavy with distant, cool appraisal.

 

Sherlock's upper body jerked upward, so that he was lying on the bed in a semi-reclining position.

 

"WHAT? NO!" he exclaimed in horror. " _Please_... I..." he pleaded with a trace of supplication in his eyes, even as he feverishly sought for words. "Come back!"

 

A cruel smile played at the corners of John's mouth. "Well... I'm afraid it's too late for begging and pleading. You've missed your chance."

 

Disbelief showed on Sherlock's face. "You... you're _leaving_? You're really leaving _now_?"

 

"Yes," John replied simply, as he inspected his fingernails in a deliberately bored manner.

 

The dark eyebrows pulled together in utter confusion, until Sherlock took note of the obvious tenting in John's trousers. "But you're still..." The pale, intense eyes tried to catch John's. "Don't you want me at least to... suck you off?"

 

"No. That won't be necessary. And it's also not what I paid for," John answered in the same, faintly bored tone of voice.

 

Absolute bewilderment engraved itself on Sherlock's face. "Will you come back?" he finally asked cautiously.

 

John shrugged his shoulders in a diffident gesture. "Not tonight ... not tomorrow ... but sometime, yes, I will."

 

Sherlock was still trying to find the right words. "But you... you didn't... you didn't finish with me," he finally stammered, his cheeks flushed red. Unfortunately, John couldn't tell whether embarrassment or irritation was at the root of the colour.

 

But John smiled again – and again, it wasn't a very friendly smile. "I always finish what I start. But I'll do it when _I_ want to. Not to do a favour for a spoiled little slut who suddenly decides he's randy and needs a good hard fuck."

 

Sherlock remained unimpressed by John's choice of coarse language, and not at all embarrassed. He was still trying to understand why John wanted to leave without taking his virginity – in direct opposition to every agreement that had been made.

 

"But I..." He licked his lips nervously. "I'm still..." He broke off, blinking several times in confusion before continuing: "What should I tell Miss Adler?"

 

"Leave Miss Adler to me. Don't worry about it," John reassured Sherlock, who was clearly – and understandably – anxious about the stern brothel owner. He would probably face more than an upbraiding if he admitted to her that a client had left unsatisfied. At least John assumed so, based on previous experience. But Sherlock shouldn't have anything to fear from Miss Adler. John simply wanted to prolong and extend his pleasure a bit, and for that it would be necessary to... keep Sherlock on tenterhooks.

 

"I'll talk to her and explain everything that needs to be explained regarding your... _condition_ ," John concluded.

 

"I simply don't understand," Sherlock admitted grudgingly, making it clear that John's retreat wasn't just a heavy blow to his libido, but also to his intellect. "What was all of that about?" With a broad gesture, he indicated himself and the bed he was still lying on.

 

"Oh, that..." John chewed on the inside of his cheek and grinned. "That was to pass the time and prove something to someone." But before Sherlock could comment on that, he turned on his heel and went out the door.

 

"And people say _I'm_ nerve-racking," Sherlock muttered resentfully to himself as soon as he was alone.

 

He let himself fall back onto the bed with a sigh of frustration. As if of their own accord, his fingers closed around his erection, which was still hard, warm, and wet. He pumped it up and down a couple of times – which was incredibly unsatisfactory – before the door opened again and John was standing on the threshold.

 

John's mouth twisted in a knowing smile, but the expression in his eyes was stern.

 

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," he advised Sherlock.

 

"Or what?" Sherlock hissed with arrogant annoyance. His threshold of tolerance for other people this evening had been reached – and surpassed by miles.

 

The knowing smile transformed into a mocking smirk. "Or you'll suffer the consequences of my _dissatisfaction_."

 

Sherlock shuddered visibly at the words, but he was still able to appear cool and disdainful. "You'd never know for sure."

 

John laughed cheerfully, but his eyes remained icy. "Trust me... I'd know. As sure as the Pope is Catholic."

 

"Fine!" Sherlock hissed angrily. "See if I care!" His fingers left his stiff cock reluctantly, clawing into the sheets again instead. His entire body appeared to rebel against this treatment, to face it with defiance. Sherlock concentrated on his breathing in order to rein in his unbridled desire for satisfaction and regain control over his instincts. Slowly and gradually, the lustful urge receded a bit, and Sherlock began to breathe easier.

 

"That's good. Excellent, in fact!" John praised him with a patronising undertone. "Good boy. Are we going to behave ourselves now?"

 

If looks could kill, John would have been little more than a bloody smear on the wall following that remark. The fire in Sherlock's eyes was like a gauntlet thrown at John's feet. It amused him, and at the same time he was unable to resist the challenge, the temptation. Sherlock wasn't broken yet, but he wouldn't be able to hold out forever...

 

"Just remember..." John finally continued, unimpressed by Sherlock's death glare. His voice sank to a stern yet seductive whisper that was used to giving orders. "I bought you. You belong to _me_. If anyone is going to take your virginity, it will be me. Your cock, your balls, your mouth, your tongue, your arse... they all belong to _me_ now. Your desire, your lust, your pleasure... all mine. I'm the one who controls you now. The one who decides when the time is ripe to _take_ you... to _break_ you... to expose your body and your soul piece by piece. To take you apart and ... maybe ... to put you back together again. I alone hold your pain and your pleasure in my hands."

 

This statement piqued Sherlock's interest noticeably. "Pain?" he asked, almost greedily. "Then... you plan on hurting me?"

 

The unpleasant smile returned to John's face. "You're going to have to earn that privilege."

 

Another shiver shook Sherlock's body, and his still-hard cock twitched eagerly, if in vain. John's fingers were itching to explore Sherlock's masochistic tendencies (which he certainly appeared to have) immediately, but he'd save that for another time. At the moment, the torment of orgasm deprivation should occupy Sherlock well enough and keep him in check.

 

And with that quite enjoyable and stimulating thought – for John, anyway - he favoured Sherlock with one last, tooth-baring grin before leaving the room without another word.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

**_To be continued_...**

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

 


	6. Waiting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation by the utterly fantastic[SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/profile)

**Chapter 6: Waiting**

 

_Mrs Hudson entered Mr Holmes' study in order to sort through the mail on his desk. She had just begun separating the letters into piles when she got the creeping feeling she wasn't alone. She stopped what she was doing and listened intently. Yes! She could hear someone else breathing._

_Curious – and a bit disquieted – she walked around the desk, moved Mr Holmes' chair aside, and peeked under the massive, mahogany table._

_"Sherlock!" she exclaimed in surprise when she discovered the crouched figure of Mr Holmes' youngest son under the desk. She had grown quite fond of him during the year he'd been with them now. Even if she tried not to let her preference show. At least not too much. "What are you doing here? Are you playing hide-and-seek?"_

_"No," came the monosyllabic reply. It sounded both sullen and a bit lonely._

_She considered briefly what might be best to use as bait for a young boy, and recalled a trick that always used to work on Mycroft._

_"I think Cook has made some fresh biscuits," she said in an attempt to lure him out. Sherlock raised his head a bit. "I'm sure if I ask, she'll give us some. What do you say?"_

_She heard Sherlock sniffing. Had he been crying? Just as she was about to bend over – an effort she would generally rather not go to, due to the pain in her hip – he saved her the trouble by slowly crawling out from under the desk. She saw right away that his eyes – although not red – were suspiciously shiny. Sympathetic, maternal feelings stirred in her breast; yet it wasn't her job to comfort him with a hug. After all, she was only Mr Holmes' secretary. She knew very well the limits set on her by her position in the household._

_She held out her hand to the little boy._

_"Come on then, Sherlock. Let's go see what kind of biscuits Cook has whipped up this time," she said with a friendly smile._

_"Chocolate walnut," Sherlock said, sniffing again, and stood up without taking her hand. "I prefer ginger nuts." He gave Mrs Hudson a challenging look._

_"I'm sorry I can't help you there. You're going to have to settle for chocolate walnut today," Mrs Hudson said with an indulgent smile. She held out her hand again, and this time he took it._

_A short while later, they were sitting at the large, cleanly scrubbed kitchen table with a plate of biscuits, a glass of milk for Sherlock, and a cup of tea for Mrs Hudson. Sherlock sighed so heavily that Mrs Hudson was torn between laughter and pity._

_It took him sighing a second time – this time with special emphasis – that she realised he wanted her to draw him out._

_"A penny for your thoughts, Sherlock?" she said readily enough, although with a quiet smirk that she couldn't quite suppress._

_"I'm booooored," Sherlock whinged expertly, taking a second biscuit. Rather than taking a bite, however, he started crumbling it up._

_"Then why were you hiding under your father's desk?" Mrs Hudson asked, astonished. "Why don't you go to the library and pick out a nice book? Or watch a little telly?"_

_Sherlock graced her with a withering glare. "Telly is for idiots and I've already been reading all day."_

_"Perhaps..." Mrs Hudson ventured, somewhat at a loss._

_"Mama Sylvia is hosting another tea party and doesn't have any time to play with me. Papa won't be back from his business trip for another two days, and he won't have any time for me then anyway because he's always so busy," Sherlock enumerated concisely, his expression wavering between desperation and anger._

_"Then..."_

_But Sherlock interrupted her again._

_"Mycroft's at his violin lesson. The same as every day. And when he's not there, he's practising. And when he's not doing that, he's doing homework." Sherlock's tone of voice was definitely verging on whinging now. His lower lip pushed forward into a pout, and he dug his chin into his arms, which he had folded in front of him on the table. "Everything's so dull here!"_

_"Oh, Sherlock." It was Mrs Hudson who sighed this time as she stroked a hand over his unruly curls. It never ceased to amaze her how much Sherlock knew about the inner workings of the Holmesian household, and how precisely he could articulate himself, at least most of the time. It was easy at moments like this to forget that he was still a child, not a teenager like Mycroft. A highly gifted and extremely intelligent child, to be sure – but still a child, with the same child-like needs for attention, closeness, recognition, and affection. Oh, Mr Holmes worshipped him - whenever he was home and could spare time for his children - but Mrs Hudson wasn't so sure about Mrs Holmes. At the same time, the lady of the house wasn't overly interested in her own son, Mycroft, either. Motherhood simply wasn't that attractive to her. She had always lived the life of a society lady, leaving Mycroft to the care of countless nannies and governesses without so much as batting an eyelash._

_"You must be missing your little friend?" Mrs Hudson recalled that a little dark-haired girl had been to visit a few times at the beginning. But those visits had ceased for some reason._

_"Irene? Pfff!" Sherlock scoffed. "She's just a girl. I don't miss her at all! She always wanted to play house with me. And do you know what the worst part was? SHE always played the father, and her doll and I ... we were the children. And if I didn't do what she wanted, she hit me. She can stay lost for all I care."_

_Once again, Mrs Hudson had to bite her lip to avoid laughing and arousing Sherlock's – certainly justified – aggravation against her. But the way he tried to cover up how much he missed his little playmate with his contrariness was so endearing that it put Mrs Hudson's self-control to quite the test._

_"Why don't you learn to play an instrument then? Like Mycroft? Then you could play together – wouldn't that be something?" Mrs Hudson suggested after a moment's reflection, during which Sherlock dragged his index finger through the crumbs on the table with a downcast expression on his face._

_No sooner had her voice faded away than Sherlock stopped brooding over the injustice of the world, instead peering at Mrs Hudson with a look of surprise._

_"An instrument?" he repeated, his eyes widening. "Why didn't I think of that?" His expression lightened. "Fine... I'll ask Mama Sylvia if I can't learn the violin too." He jumped up with an enterprising spring to his step and ran out of the kitchen._

_Mrs Hudson shook her head as she watched him go. That child's mercurial temper was going to put Mr and Mrs Holmes' parenting skills to a serious test at some point._

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Sherlock never found out exactly what his mysterious client told Miss Adler, but at least he knew now that it was none other than John Watson.

 

Now he finally had a name to go with the face.

 

The moment he discovered (he did have internet access and wasn't exactly a novice when it came to research – a souvenir from his uni days) that John Watson went by the nickname _'Doc'_ and was one of the leading crimelords in London, his curiosity was irrevocably piqued.

 

Sherlock was virtually chomping at the bit in anticipation of their next meeting. In the end, he had to wait five days before John returned.

 

In those five days, however, Sherlock was uncharacteristically obedient, actually managing to avoid touching himself in a sensual or erotic manner. He should have been proud of himself for his compliance, as he would certainly earn John's approval for his self-control, but as it turned out, quite the opposite was the case. Sherlock was dissatisfied, bad-tempered, and irritable... even more so than was usual for him.

 

The reason for his excessive irritability lay in the fact that ever since that evening, he was in a constant state of faint, tingly arousal. An arousal that never receded nor flared up, but that remained at a certain level and whose embers ate their way throughout his body and his already hyperactive mind.

 

By now, he didn't just want to satisfy his intellectual curiosity, but the other – more physical – needs as well, which John had set alight in him without bothering to quench the resulting slow, smouldering flames.

 

Over the course of those days without John, he serviced his clientele in his accustomed manner, with his hands, mouth, and arse – the latter body part offered up only for the occasional beating – when it was required.

 

His constant, low-level arousal didn't necessarily make his job any easier, even if his clients enjoyed very much the fact that it was suddenly so easy to rouse his erection. The fact that he never climaxed – or attempted to – was generally met by his clients with little more than a shrug of their shoulders ... if they evinced any interest at all.

 

Despite his new – rather ridiculous, in his eyes – sensuality, Sherlock was never tempted to defy John's order not to pleasure himself ... with one single exception.

 

The client wasn't unknown around Irene's brothel, but Sherlock had never been requested by him before. But Romero – the boy who the client usually asked for – didn't work for Irene any more, so Sherlock had been offered, and the client agreed.

 

The client waiting for Sherlock in room five was a bit older than Sherlock had expected. Grey hair at his temples, slim, fit, probably a long-distance runner or perhaps a military background... Those were Sherlock's thoughts after his initial, cursory glance. Then, when he looked more closely and felt the man's firm handshake, Sherlock was struck strongly by the resemblance to John.

 

Although John, with his blond, cleanly parted hair and his somewhat below-average stature, didn't look anything like the tall man with the grey buzz cut, there was something in the upright stance and the friendly but stern eyes that made Sherlock think right away of John.

 

The client also treated Sherlock in a similar manner to John. He ordered him in a polite but firm way to undress, while he remained seated, fully clothed, in one of the armchairs. Sherlock dawdled a bit on purpose, to see if he could entice any more orders out of the client. He wasn't disappointed. The man didn't shout at him – something that many other men would have done in the same situation, and which bored Sherlock to death; rather, he simply repeated his demands with more weight behind his words.

 

Sherlock absorbed those forceful words like a sponge, secretly surprised at himself. He didn't expect how much he longed to be treated like that – with unyielding resolution tempered by kindness.

 

Once he was undressed, he draped himself expertly across the client's lap, as the man had expressed the desire to spank him. Sherlock was fine with that, and since – due to the similarity to John - his brain was constantly coming up with thoughts that were both confusing and stimulating, the prospect of a beating sent a shudder of pleasure down his spine. He shuffled back and forth over the man's thighs until he found the ideal position, and in doing so he felt the initial signs of arousal in the older man... his penis was already half-hard and pressing against Sherlock's stomach through the material of his trousers.

 

The blows that the client let rain down on Sherlock's arse were exquisite, and Sherlock enjoyed it very much. The man was a master at his art and definitely knew what he was doing. That was rare enough that Sherlock decided to let himself go a bit more than he usually did, and his memories of John did the rest. In the end, both men had painfully hard cocks, and Sherlock was heavily tempted to bring himself to completion just this once – in direct opposition to John's wishes.

 

The temptation to simply rub himself against the other man's body, to writhe around just a bit, was huge. Given his current condition, it would have been easy for Sherlock to achieve orgasm – finally – in such a manner. His arse was glowing from the beating, the pain only serving to arouse Sherlock further. He arched himself closer to the hot, firm, merciless hand; his hips began to move in small thrusts simulating copulation; all logical thought left him, and a climax was within reach ... he was just waiting for the next blow to fall, yearning for it, aching for it... hoping that the next stroke would bring him his longed-for release...

 

But instead of another explosion of arousal and pain, Sherlock felt the gentle prodding of an index finger between his arse cheeks.

 

The erotic fog that Sherlock had found himself in dissipated from one moment to the next. His entire body tensed and he jumped up as if he'd been bitten by a tarantula. Sherlock screamed bloody murder, while the client stared at him in shock. Sherlock's enraged cries reached Irene's ears, and she ran – insofar as that was possible in her stilettos and pencil skirt - to the scene of the incident.

 

Once there, she didn't beat around the bush for long, giving Sherlock a resounding slap – before the eyes of the horrified and still speechless client – thus causing him to fall silent.

 

Dumbfounded and in internal turmoil, Sherlock listened silently as Irene apologised to the client – who had recovered from his shock by this time and become rather upset and extremely loud – with a silver tongue for the _"completely inexcusable behaviour of her unreasonable and impertinent employee"._

 

She pulled the sheet off the bed, threw it at Sherlock's head, and barked that he should go directly to her office. Sherlock wrapped the sheet loosely around his body and overheard on his way out as Irene continued to apologise profusely in an attempt to soothe the enraged client.

 

When she joined Sherlock in her office several minutes later, Sherlock hissed angrily – without any further word of explanation - that that man had no right to touch him _there_.

 

Irene gave him an appraising look, but remained silent. In the end, she told him to lie down for a couple of hours and put ice on his cheek. The red imprint of her delicate – yet powerful – hand would have to fade before he could service any more clients.

 

Sherlock withdrew with a snort of annoyance, but he was secretly grateful to Irene for giving him such a generous reprieve. He ended up staying away for three whole hours, but even then she didn't reprove him in any way.

 

Those three hours did him good, but his nerves were still on edge, and his emotions were still in an uproar. John's words had burnt themselves into his memory. His arse belonged to John. No one else.

 

But that disaster was all past now. And it no longer interested Sherlock a day later, when John came back.

 

At this moment, Sherlock was in one of the brothel's most luxurious rooms, reserved for wealthy and important clients, pacing the floor like a caged panther. John was going to be there any moment.

 

If anyone had told him two weeks ago that he would be so eager to lose his virginity – to a crimelord, no less – he would have told that person to find themselves a damn good shrink.

 

It was only three hours since Irene, in a disgustingly good mood, had tossed him an enema kit in the hallway along with a room number and a time.

 

When he'd just stood there gaping at her in disbelief – completely unable to move or even understand that his suffering was almost at an end – she'd laughed and said, "Come on, get going, my little virgin. Get to work! The clock is ticking – you'd better start getting ready for your _doctor's appointment_."

 

He'd glowered at her for that incredibly stupid little joke, but she'd probably also noticed the trembling in his hands, nullifying the impact of his glare, since she'd walked right on past him with a laugh and a wiggle of her hips – and a sly wink. Sherlock had simply stood there for quite some time before becoming aware of the enema kit in his hands and running off to his room.

 

That was three hours ago. Now he was here. Shaking with tension and anticipation.

 

And then it was time. Sherlock heard steps out in the hall and swallowed, but his throat and mouth were bone-dry all of a sudden. He expected a fanfare, a drumroll... something... dramatic to underscore the importance of this moment in a suitable manner. But the door simply opened in its normal, undramatic way, and then John was standing in front of him.

 

And Sherlock was good and ready to beg for a good, hard fuck.

 

John's calm, expectant gaze was more than his nerves could take at the moment, but he braced himself and tried not to appear as pathetic as he felt.

 

"Congratulations... your efforts have proven successful," he said with a strange combination of pride, relief, and desire. "My resistance has been successfully..." He broke off and gave his head half a shake. No. No half-truths for John. All or nothing. He looked up again. "You have succeeded in breaking _me_ ," he concluded firmly.

 

John raised one eyebrow. "Have I?" he replied with a malicious grin.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_"But of course, Lord Windermere," Irene assured the person on the other end of her mobile grandly as she strode confidently across the uneven cobblestones of the London street in her high heels. She listened a moment, rolled her eyes, and then said in a tone of voice that betrayed neither her amusement nor her annoyance, "Discretion is a point of honour in my house. If you think it appropriate, there's an entrance in the rear that you can feel free to use. But I assure you..."_

_When she was interrupted, she stopped where she was and pressed her carefully painted lips together in irritation. The urge to bury her manicured nails in her artfully upswept hair was nearly irresistible. It was only the thought that a successful businesswoman couldn't allow herself such lapses that prevented her from succumbing._

_And so she listened patiently to the misgivings of her potential new client until she decided she'd had enough._

_"Lord Windermere, pardon me for interrupting," she began in a friendly yet firm tone. "But my time – as yours – is valuable. If you would like to honour my establishment with a visit, you are more than welcome. If you would rather not be counted amongst my clients – then of course I respect that decision as well. If you would prefer simply to chat with me, then I'm afraid I shall have to charge you at my going rate. That would be 300 pounds an hour – caning included. Perhaps you'll feel more decisive afterwards." A satisfied smile played on her lips as she listened to the assurances on the other end of the line._

_"Wonderful, Lord Windermere. Tomorrow evening at seven-thirty. Blond. No body hair. Shorter than six feet and no older than twenty-seven. I have just the thing for you." She allowed an ingratiating titter to sound. "Or rather: the right person. Pardon? Oh, no. No one could possibly be listening in to this call. The noise in the background?" Irene smiled and cast an eye after the taxi that honked as it passed. "The television, mylord. I must have sat on the remote by mistake. Until tomorrow evening, then." She rang off and mouthed, 'Idiot!'_

_Sometimes she really wished she'd never come up the idea for a gay brothel. Then she'd still be working as a dominatrix, and she'd have her peace. With a faint sense of regret, she allowed her gaze to wander over her well-cared-for fingernails – painted in the same brand-new, distinctive shade of 'Jungle Red' as her lips - her bespoke, royal blue sheath dress, down to her matching Manolo Blahniks. She could never have afforded such luxury as a dominatrix._

_She sighed briefly, slid her phone into her Dior purse and set about replacing her flashy earring – which she'd removed in order to take the call, as it was so big – on her right earlobe._

_But the devil's in the details, as the saying goes, and the earring slid out of her fingers and fell onto the street. And since, as is also known, misery loves company, it bounced on the cobblestones and rolled enthusiastically into a narrow alley between two houses, only to disappear behind some garbage bins._

_With somewhat less enthusiasm, she followed the path her disobedient earring had taken. The earring was as expensive as it was flashy, and she was still frugal enough not to want to simply write it off. The part of town she was in wasn't one of the best, but she didn't think there was any immediate danger present in the alley. The thought barely had time to cross her mind that she probably wouldn't come across anything worse than a couple of junkies shooting up behind the bins, when she found herself face to face with just such a wretched figure. She sighed softly. Her earring had rolled right up to the shoe of the miserable creature, who was lying curled up on the ground next to the building. Not seeing a need to beat about the bush, she bent down and picked up her property. As she did so, the body moved, and a pale face framed by dull, matted, dark curls peeled itself out of the folds of a once-expensive and now hopelessly filth-encrusted coat._

_Irene did a double take. She forgot completely about the earring in her hand. Those curls... those cheekbones..._

_"Sherlock?" she heard herself ask uncertainly, immediately wanting to slap herself for doing so. What were the chances that her childhood friend was lying here in the filth at her feet?_

_The man jerked back, but lifted his head as if he were a frightened animal and blinked his eyes open. They were directed at her, but were unfocused and haunted._

_"You must be mistaken," the man mumbled before retreating even further into his coat._

_But Irene had seen enough._

_"Sherlock!" she exclaimed with increasing confidence. "Don't try to fool me! I'd recognise those eyes and that pouty mouth anywhere."_

_Sherlock blinked and looked like he was trying to get a firmer fix on Irene. "Who... Aunt Doris?" he asked, slurring his words._

_"Aunt Doris?" Irene cried in outrage. "Lord help me! If you're trying to break it to me gently that I look like my mother already – then that pounding I gave you twenty years ago for breaking my new doll on Christmas will seem like a chorus of angels compared to the beat-down I'm about to give you."_

_"Irene?" Sherlock muttered disbelievingly, propping himself up with shaky movements. "Irene?"_

_"Yes, Irene," she confirmed with a swell of emotions, and wiped her eyes. "What in the world have you done, Sherlock? What's happened to you?"_

_When Sherlock stared past her with an empty expression rather than answering, she made a decision. She bent over, grasped him briskly under the arms, and hauled him up. She was close enough that the stink emanating from his body and his clothing enveloped her like a cloud, knocking the air out of her. But then she started breathing through her mouth and got him on his feet. He was able to hold himself up – if unsteadily – by leaning with his back against the wall._

_"What's this about?" he asked, his voice sluggish. "What are you going to do with me?"_

_"I don't know what you've taken," Irene remarked brusquely, "but you're coming with me now. You're going to bathe and you're going to eat. And then you're going to tell me everything."_

_"What if I don't want to?"_

_"Then I'll knock you around a little first before I drag you to my house," Irene threatened with a lopsided smile, trying not to dissolve into tears over his condition._

_When she wrapped her arm around his shoulder in order to help him out of the alley, he whispered softly into her upsweep, which was now coming loose, "I missed you, Irene. I really missed you."_

_In the wake of this confession, Irene allowed a tear to escape from the corner of her eye and leave a faint trail on her powdered cheek._

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

**_To be continued..._ **

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Little Sherlock prefers ginger nuts… (“Ginger Snaps” in the US)

<http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ginger_nut>

 

SwissMiss and I decided on this kind of biscuit because… well… At first I simply wrote “Ginger Cookies” but SwissMiss came up with the idea of “Ginger Nuts” and… it fits!

I had this backstory for Violet Sigerson in my head (it never saw the light of day, but anyway…) that she was of Scandinavian origin. And – according to wiki “Ginger nuts” are very popular in Scandinavia.


	7. Empty Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Translation by the amazing [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/profile)

**Chapter 7: Empty Promises**

 

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

John's calm, expectant gaze was more than his nerves could take at the moment, but he braced himself and tried not to appear as pathetic as he felt.

 

"Congratulations... your efforts have proven successful," he said with a strange combination of pride, relief, and desire. "My resistance has been successfully..." He broke off and gave his head half a shake. No. No half-truths for John. All or nothing. He looked up again. "You have succeeded in breaking _me_ ," he concluded firmly.

 

John raised one eyebrow. "Have I?" he replied with a malicious grin.

 

Sherlock bit his lip briefly, as if he expected his next words would be unpleasant.

 

"I think so... in a manner of speaking..." he stated hesitantly, lowering his eyes, only to look up again a moment later. "You tossed me a few breadcrumbs, lured me with innuendo and hints... gave me a taste of what you have planned for me, allowed me to feel a tiny bit of how it will be when..." He broke off, glanced away, then returned his gaze to John after all. All this time, John was listening intently.

 

"It was clever, _very_ clever," Sherlock admitted with a crooked smile. "You must have known – or _sensed_ – that it would drive me mad. To _suspect_ something without really knowing it... having to rely on assumptions without any certainty. Will you now satisfy my curiosity and my ... _hunger_?" Sherlock's voice became low and rough as he spoke the last few words. His tongue made an attempt to moisten his dry lips. Desperate desire mixed with apprehension could be read clearly on his face, which – now that he appeared to have removed almost all of his masks – presented itself naked and exposed, as well as unusually expressive.

 

When John didn't give any indication he was going to respond, Sherlock straightened his body and lifted his head just a bit higher, lending him a proud air.

 

"Or must I beg? Is that it?" A spark of defiance appeared in his eyes. "Do you want to see me grovel? Must I debase myself before you first? If that's what you want... I'm prepared to do it. As long as it's really necessary."

 

Now John smiled, and this time it was a genuine, friendly smile that reached his eyes and warmed them. "I don't think begging will be necessary. I'd say we're beyond that. You've earned your reward. No ifs, ands, or buts."

 

A small sigh of relief escaped Sherlock's lips. "Good. I would have despised every second of it, but I would have done it. If that had been the only way to achieve my goal."

 

John's lips curled. "Your affinity for the truth always pops up at such inopportune moments. Didn't anyone ever tell you that kind of honesty is highly inappropriate in your profession?"

 

"You of all people deign to give me advice on honesty and one's choice of profession?" Sherlock responded haughtily.

 

John's initial response was a blind rage that licked through his gut, threatening to overpower him. His temper had been quite helpful in the early days of his career, but the higher he'd risen within the _family_ , the more important it had become to control himself. He succeeded this time as well. He even managed to maintain a cool outward appearance, although his every instinct was screaming to wring this impertinent whore's neck.

 

"So you found out how I earn my money," he responded as calmly as possible.

 

Sherlock truly didn't appear to have noticed anything about John's internal disquiet, as he merely shrugged his shoulders. "I'm not stupid. I know how to use a search engine. And I'm certain that you're not just in it for the _money_."

 

"Oh, really?" John spat out sarcastically. "And what else would it be then? What am I in it for – in your vaunted opinion?"

 

Sherlock, appearing unimpressed, returned promptly: "Power."

 

John's teeth slid over his lower lip, and his head moved as if he were about to shake it. Once again, he was absolutely fascinated by Sherlock's complete lack of fear – just as he was fascinated by the way his conjectures hit the bull’s eye with uncanny accuracy. "Clever boy," he said, his tone faintly mocking. "Although... you can't be as intelligent as all that after all – or why else do you continue to give such smart-alecky answers even though you know who I am? Aren't you scared of me being one of ... the _family_?"

 

"Should I be?" Sherlock asked bluntly.

 

John bared his teeth.

 

"Clever _and_ brave!" he jeered. "My goodness – this is certainly my lucky day!" He favoured Sherlock with an icy glare. "Enough foreplay for today. Get undressed. And make it quick!" he barked.

 

Sherlock started to flinch back, but then his quick, attentive eyes skimmed over John's face and body from beneath slightly furrowed brows. "That... wasn't _particularly_ smart of me," he finally commented hesitantly.

 

"Well done, you!" John said with an icy smile. "Give the candidate 100 points."

 

Sherlock took a deep breath, his face displaying a sober expression. "I've angered you – and now... you're going to make things painful for me. Am I right?" Although he was speaking in a tentative manner, there was no fear in his voice – only calm acceptance, as if he'd been in exactly the same situation many times before.

 

The two men watched each other openly for several seconds; Sherlock calm and relaxed, John cool and pensive. But at the end of those seconds, John did something he'd never done before.

 

He changed his mind.

 

"No," John said, following those moments of silence. "I promised I wouldn't hurt you without reason. I'm a man of my word."

 

He was met with an astounded look from that pair of pale eyes.

 

"Really?" Sherlock blurted out, before lowering his eyes in confusion and whispering, "Thank you."

 

John was discomfited by the feeling that he hadn't earned that gratitude. He'd actually planned out some very explicit scenarios for punishing Sherlock, before that strange mixture of bravery and fragility, together with that absurd ability to accept the unavoidable with a shrug of his shoulders, had moved him to change his mind.

 

"Would you be so good as to remove your clothing now?" John asked, with a touch of frustration in his voice.

 

"By all means," Sherlock replied, letting the dressing gown he was wearing slide easily off his shoulders. He didn't have a single stitch of clothing on underneath, and presented his body in all its shameless glory, a fact which was both a pleasant surprise for John as well as the trigger for the first erotic stirrings in his groin.

 

John's arousal didn't appear to escape Sherlock either.

 

"How and where do you want to have me?" he asked with a very self-satisfied smirk.

 

"You are truly incorrigible," John remarked with a fleeting smile and a quick shake of his head. "Just when I think I've got the upper hand..." He didn't finish his sentence, instead gesturing at the bed. "I want you on the bed – on your back. Like last time."

 

While Sherlock climbed onto the bed with catlike grace and took up a position mimicking the one from their last meeting, John went to the cupboard with the aids and confidently picked out a tube of lubricant. When he returned to the bed with it, Sherlock regarded the tube in his hand with a slight frown.

 

"Lube?" he asked. "Why not vaseline like last time? I liked... It felt good." A faint blush rose to his pale cheeks along with the admission.

 

John shot him an incredulous look and blinked several times. "Maybe because vaseline and condoms don't mix well?" he stated with disbelieving ridicule.

 

Sherlock's expression lightened with sudden understanding before darkening again immediately. "You never intended to take my virginity that first night!" he complained.

 

"As I said ... you were surprisingly pricey. I wanted to get my money's worth..." John paused in the middle of his sentence. His subconscious had noticed something about what Sherlock had said. His eyes narrowed.

 

"Wait. Just a sec. What was that? Did you really think _I_ was going to fuck you without a johnny?" A hint of anger found its way into John's confusion, without him intending it. "Worse... _you_ would have let me? You would have let me fuck you without _any_ protection?"

 

Sherlock blinked in surprise. "Well... I had thought..."

 

"Shit, no!" John cried. "You didn't think anything... You didn't think for one bloody second! Is that your idea of fun? Playing Russian roulette? With your life?"

 

"It is rather boring here... from time to time..." Sherlock answered sheepishly, drawing circles on the covers with his index finger.

 

There was something disarming about Sherlock's attitude that caused John to shake his head. What business was it of his whether Sherlock played fast and loose with his health? None. None at all. He was going to protect himself from any possible infections, and not give a flying fuck about the rest. His anger blew over as quickly as it had come up. A soft sigh hovered in his throat. His temper had got the better of him once again before he'd been able to rein it in.

 

"You're an idiot," John remarked dryly.

 

"You're probably right," Sherlock replied with a rueful smile. "I wouldn't have ended up here if I weren't an idiot."

 

And there it was again – Sherlock's upfront, direct honesty that even included himself. And without intending to, John realised that he was once again running the danger of finding that particular characteristic of Sherlock's much more attractive than it actually was – or than it had a right to be.

 

John appreciated honesty. In his business and in his position, he was exposed to flattery, brown-nosing, and boot-licking so often that he'd learned to appreciate the value of an honest man. Even if Sherlock's honesty had disastrous results for him. Because it was that recklessness toward himself and his well-being that confused and fascinated John – especially as it was so foreign to his own nature.

 

While he was considering the puzzle Sherlock presented him, his gaze wandered slowly over Sherlock's nude form. After a short while, he realised that Sherlock enjoyed the visual inspection, as his previously soft penis began to fill with blood and stiffen, slowly but surely.

 

The sight of sexual readiness encouraged John's libido once again as well. A hungry growl vibrated in his chest. He licked his lips, slipped out of his jacket, and pulled his black polo neck over his head. With a shiver of arousal, he observed Sherlock's eyes widen with greed, puzzlement, and interest as they wandered over his naked, muscular chest, finally stopping at the scar decorating his left shoulder. It was the ugly result of a large-calibre firearm, with the exit wound on the front near the collarbone. A reminder of a _difference of opinion_ with a rival who had been too cowardly to shoot at John from the front. It hadn't ended up helping him anyway. At least his headstone – paid for by John; he knew how these things were done – was the nicest in the whole cemetery.

 

It was a relief – if a subconscious one – for John that Sherlock wasn't disgusted by his scar. Most of the men he spent time with tended to flinch instinctively away from the disfigurement, only to then pretend it wasn't there... which never worked, of course, and only served to annoy John. Reactions like that had led ever more frequently to John not removing all of his clothing for certain _activities_.

 

Sherlock, on the other hand... He seemed to be enchanted by the scar and everything connected to it. What a welcome change of pace!

 

"Ready for the next round?" John asked in a dark voice. Sherlock nodded eagerly and spread his legs in a way that couldn't be mistaken for anything other than an invitation.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Twenty minutes later, John slid three fingers into Sherlock's relaxed yet still sufficiently narrow opening, only to immediately pull them back a bit again. The rhythm and depth of the thrusts with his fingers were paving the way for another part of his anatomy that John intended to implement that evening. Just like the last time, Sherlock showed himself to be highly receptive to John's stimulation. His entire body was trembling, and his erect penis dripped continual, clear drops of pre-come.

 

"I think that should be enough," John murmured, carefully taking his fingers out of the heated body, which tried desperately to suck him in deeper, clinging to him in an attempt to hold him fast. Such attempts were naturally in vain, and as soon as John succeeded in removing his fingers completely, Sherlock whimpered softly at the loss. John watched greedily how his hole, gleaming with lubricant, clenched in a fruitless attempt to clasp what that had just been there, only to fail.

 

John had done a very thorough job preparing Sherlock, and he was now unable to completely close the muscle there anymore. The lust-filled, unsatisfying spasms of the body spread out before him aroused John beyond all reason. Desire and arousal had already been shooting through his body for a while, and now they settled in his groin. His pants had been too tight and uncomfortable around his erection for quite some time.

 

"You're stretched enough now," John said, licking his lips hungrily.

 

Sherlock watched him from beneath heavy, half-closed lids. His respiration was laboured. "When are you finally going to fuck me?" he asked hoarsely. "It feels so empty... maddening... I need..." His words trailed off into incoherent mumbling.

 

"I know exactly what you need," John told him with a smug smile. "But you're going to have to earn it."

 

"Anything," Sherlock breathed, twisting like a cat on the sheets. "Anything..." he repeated.

 

A fresh wave of arousal pulsed through John, and his cock twitched impatiently. Now he had Sherlock exactly where he'd wanted him in the beginning. Something like triumph added itself to the arousal, fed and heated it. A satisfied smile hovered on his lips.

 

"All right... hands and knees, if you please," John ordered him, sliding to the side on the bed to give Sherlock enough room to get into the new position.

 

Moving slowly, as if drugged, Sherlock turned over and knelt, supporting himself with his hands on the mattress. He spread his legs a little, lowered his head, and held perfectly still. Only the sound of his breathing could be heard. John paused for a moment, listening to the faintly stuttering inhalations. It didn't take long before Sherlock raised his head again to glare at John over his shoulder, almost reproachfully.

 

"What are you waiting for?" he asked hoarsely, wiggling his hips in a tawdry yet alluring manner.

 

Without giving it much thought, John slapped him hard on his backside. Sherlock moaned with pleasure.

 

"That really turns you on, doesn't it?" John remarked with a salacious grin.

 

"When someone's as good at it as you are... then the answer is yes," Sherlock replied without hesitating as he stretched and writhed in a highly enticing manner.

 

He spread his legs even further apart, offering John an unimpeded and heretofore unsuspected view. His anal muscles pulsed in weak spasms, continuing their vain attempt to close the stretched and loosened opening. Framed by his thighs, his overfull testicles were already pulled in tight from his arousal, defying gravity in an attempt to huddle in close to his willing body.

 

John stroked the soft skin of his sac, encircled him gently with his fingers, and then, in one quick move, yanked down. Sherlock's shrill cry was like music to his ears, and the fresh stream of pre-come that flowed down unchecked onto the sheets was like ambrosia to his eyes.

 

 

There was no other word for it.

 

All of a sudden, John didn't want to wait a single minute more. He didn't want to revel in it any longer. He didn't want to wring out the pleasure from every single second. The urge to _possess_ Sherlock had become unbearable.

 

Hastily, he opened his flies, shoved his underwear down over his hips, and took his rigid erection, wet with his lustful appetites, in hand. He had to bite his lips in order to suppress a whimper of relief. God – if the gentle pressure of his own fingers felt this good, how indescribable was it going to be once he was inside Sherlock?

 

He quickly took a sealed condom out of his trouser pocket, tore it open with his teeth, took out the thin latex shell and tossed the packaging carelessly on the bed. He unrolled the condom carefully and with precision over his stiff member, then felt blindly on the bed until his fingers found the tube of lubricant. He spread a generous portion on his erection, inhaling sharply through his teeth – the contrast of the cool gel on his hot skin was unexpected.

 

Once again, he took his penis in his hand and knelt between Sherlock's legs. He positioned the tip of his erection directly against Sherlock's gently twitching opening, exerting a slight pressure. Through the thin layer of latex, he could feel the promising pulsing at the top of his glans, and above the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears, he heard Sherlock panting for air. Then the body before him held itself completely still, the only sound in the room that of Sherlock's heavy breathing.

 

John was now in control of himself enough again to savour the enticing throbbing against the head of his penis just a little while longer. He rubbed it across the opening a bit, enjoyed listening to the gasps Sherlock could no longer hold back, and finally said, "Don't get too excited yet. I'm not going to ram myself hard and fast down your virginal hole. In fact, I'm not going to do a thing. Not a thing. If you want my cock up your arse, you're going to have to do it yourself." John took note of a groan and a lusty whimper, but no complaints. His heart rate increased rapidly. He'd be damned if this wasn't going to be the hottest fuck he'd had in a long time. If not the hottest fuck in his entire life.

 

"Go ahead and take your time. I want you to shove it in nice and slow. As slow as you can. You'll be sorry if you rush it. If I think you're going too fast, I'll pull out, get up and leave. No looking back. Understood?" John asked sharply.

 

Get up and leave – John hoped Sherlock's wouldn't see through that empty threat. Get up and leave that wicked arse behind? Not a chance. Get up and leave ... He didn't even think he could at this point. But the threat appeared to have the desired motivational effect on Sherlock, as a shiver ran down his back at John's words. It was incredible how the young man enjoyed being treated like this – even seemed to crave it.

 

"You can begin any time... I'm just waiting for you..." John grasped Sherlock's hips with his hands and felt the shudder that ran through the entire oversensitive body.

 

Yet as tempting as it was to simply give in and bury himself deep in Sherlock's heat, John kept his promise and waited patiently until Sherlock had himself far enough under control that he could execute his assigned task. His patience was rewarded, for as soon as Sherlock had braced himself and shifted his weight back just the slightest amount, the head of John's penis slid with almost sinful ease into the silken tightness of Sherlock's opening. The dark moan that hit John's ears left no doubt what a filthy slut this no-longer-virgin truly was.

 

John breathed deliberately through his nose in order to get a handle on his hunger and his lust. God, this young man was truly exquisite, the way his muscles twitched, urgent yet insatiable, around John's penis... how easy it would be to quench that insatiable desire... but that wasn't the deal. That wasn't the plan. John wanted it to be a challenge for Sherlock. Maybe he even wanted him to fail... he wasn't quite sure on that point himself. But what he definitely didn't want was to make it any easier for Sherlock, or to do it for him.

 

For that reason, John held still... waiting and taming his lust. Even greater pleasures lay ahead than a simple _wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am_.

 

On the other hand, Sherlock was taking the part about _going slow_ a little too seriously.

 

John's forehead creased and he decided that a little encouragement – or rather, direction – couldn't hurt.

 

"That's not bad... you can go a bit deeper... just remember: keep it slow," John whispered with an oily grin. "And don't stop until you feel my hair tickling your bum. Got it?" John waited for the jerky nod, which apparently cost Sherlock a great deal of effort. His grin widened. "If you can do that just like a good boy, your reward will be me fucking you into the mattress until you can't see straight."

 

At those drastic words, a highly indecent moan escaped Sherlock's throat. His thighs quivering, he eased himself back with gentle pressure, allowing a little more of John's twitching erection to be surrounded by Sherlock's satiny sheath.

 

After several agonisingly long minutes that felt like an eternity to both men, during which Sherlock had to keep stopping, breathing heavily, he finally achieved his goal of seating John's hard cock all the way inside.

 

With a calming hand, John caressed the body, gleaming with perspiration, that enveloped his erection so fantastically tight within its trembling muscles.

 

"Such a good boy," he praised him, taunting. "What a perfect little whore."

 

Another shudder wracked Sherlock's body, and the muscles of his tight, hot arse squeezed together firmly around John's impatient erection. John bit down on his lips, sighing softly as the urge to empty himself right then and there into that willing body lessened a bit due to the pain in his mouth. Then he licked his lips greedily and, to the tune of Sherlock's keen, ecstatic cries, he pulled out completely from the insistent embrace. He admired the gaping hole for several seconds before he hammered home without warning, burying his cock's full length in Sherlock's body in a single stroke.

 

"Yes! Yes! Yes!" Sherlock's screams resonated throughout the entire room.

 

"Such a randy little slut you are," John growled, slamming into Sherlock's willing, unresisting body in a fast, hard rhythm.

 

Sherlock's hands slid unanchored across the sheets, so he switched to supporting his weight on his forearms. He apparently couldn't muster the will to continue holding his head up, as he allowed his forehead to rest between his arms on the bed, which only caused his arse to stick up even higher.

 

The submissive position served to excite John even further. His hands were like claws gripping Sherlock's hips, sure to leave finger-shaped bruises that would be visible for days on the pale skin. John tried to vary his angle of entry several times, but his attempts had yet to result in the desired effect.

 

Then, all of a sudden, Sherlock's head flew up, and he let out an intense shout.

 

"There! Do that again! Oh God! Quickly!"

 

John only smiled in satisfaction and did his best to avoid stimulating Sherlock's magic spot again now that he'd found it, until Sherlock began to sob with arousal, desire, and frustration.

 

Without Sherlock seeing, John grinned fiendishly at the dark head full of wild curls.

 

Oh yes... now it was time... now the real fun could begin...

 

John's movements slowed until he was at a complete standstill, his throbbing erection still deep inside Sherlock's body.

 

"John? Don't stop... not now... I'm ... I'm _so_ close," Sherlock whimpered.

 

"Me too – but keep it together a little longer... just a little while longer..." John pulled back slightly, and with his left index finger he probed the stretched ring of muscle that surrounded his cock like a fantastically narrow sheath. He stroked the taut skin, listening to Sherlock's sighs as if they were an overture. An auditory hors-d'oeuvre preceding the main show. Finally, John's touches turned to gentle pressure, and he insinuated his finger alongside his penis in the distended canal, widening it even further. He went about it very carefully, and Sherlock expressed his approval with a long, drawn-out moan that vibrated throughout his entire body.

 

He'd used this special technique several times, but it was still a strange sensation to feel something alongside his penis – even if it was just his own finger. There was still something filthy about it... and that thought still increased John's excitement every time. How must that fullness and pressure feel inside Sherlock's compliant yet still inexperienced arse?

 

John had to close his eyes and bite his lips again to distract himself, or he would have shot his load within seconds, like an overhormonal teenager.

 

Once he could halfway trust his body again, he pushed his finger in even further, gently yet firmly, until he felt a slight rounding under the tip of his finger. He waited until he heard a soft sob of relief, then pushed his finger in a tiny bit further and rubbed relentlessly across the countless nerve endings of Sherlock's neglected prostate.

 

Sherlock's entire body tensed up. In his ecstasy, however, he didn't know whether he should try to escape the miraculous stimulation or whether he should curl himself towards that brutal finger. Overwhelmed by the two opposing desires, he froze stiff where he was, his mouth distended as if in a scream.

 

He'd lost the ability to articulate himself, and as a result, all that came out of his throat was a hoarse rattle, interrupted only by soft, high sounds whose register had nothing to do with his usual baritone.

 

Finally, finally, Sherlock felt John's hand around his unbearably hard cock. A shiver ran through his body, releasing some of the tension. Oh please... just a little ... but as John's fingers continued to simply hold him and Sherlock realised he wasn't going to stroke him, wasn't going to masturbate him, his throat closed up. This desire, this lust... the release that was being denied him ... it was hell... and heaven at the same time.

 

Just when Sherlock thought he was going to die – or at least fall unconscious – his testicles contracted in a way that was almost painful. His innermost muscles squeezed, almost in a cramp, around the satiny steel that sat embedded motionless in his arse, and the pressure on his prostate increased several times over what he'd felt just moments earlier. Then it felt like a dam broke in his lower body, and seconds later, he ejaculated in a steady stream all over the sheets.

 

The feeling was like a steady throbbing, as if all the energy were flowing out of his body. It was an indescribably intense feeling, and yet it wasn't quite enough.

 

He wanted more! And then, when John finally pulled his finger out and started pounding into him with hard, deep thrusts, his arousal intensified once more and he yearned for satisfaction, for some kind of completion that seemed to be denied him... the promise of a spectacular climax was within reach, but he couldn't quite manage to achieve resolution... and that despite a desperate attempt to do so on his part.

 

And even when John's body stiffened and he spilled inside Sherlock with an almost bestial growl, Sherlock's hunger still wasn't satisfied.

 

Immediately after climaxing, John pulled out of Sherlock and rolled the used condom off his softening cock.

 

Sherlock turned around, supporting himself on the bed with his elbow. He looked down at his own body and saw that his penis was still more than half-erect, despite the volume of ejaculate he'd secreted earlier. His forehead creased. It wasn't just his psyche that wanted more; his body was also apparently unsatisfied. Sherlock was confused. How was that possible? He'd come ... he'd ejaculated ... although ... it actually hadn't felt like he'd _really_ orgasmed.

 

He raised his eyes to John, who was watching him with a peculiar expression.

 

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and he tilted his head slightly.

 

"Why didn't that feel like an orgasm, even though I ejaculated? And why am I still..."

 

"Randy?" John interrupted him bluntly, with a broad, smarmy grin. When Sherlock nodded, he continued: "Oh, that's because I didn't really make you ejaculate. It was more like ... _milking_."

 

The folds in Sherlock's forehead deepened.

 

"But how..." he began, before his expression lightened suddenly. "Oh, of course. Prostate massage! How stupid of me," he cried mildly, until a new – even more disturbing – thought occurred to him. "You did that on purpose," he remarked with quiet admiration.

 

John had pulled up and zipped his trousers by now, and was in the middle of pulling his polo neck top over his head.

 

"Obviously," he replied dryly.

 

Sherlock swallowed hard. His throat felt strange. How curious.

 

"When will I see you again?"

 

"Never," John answered dispassionately as he slipped into his jacket.

 

"Never?" Sherlock echoed in disbelief. "But I thought... you could ... you'd be _my_..." He swallowed again. "I thought you might become _a_ regular customer."

 

John regarded him with cold, hard eyes.

 

"I broke you in. Fairly thoroughly, I might add. Your virginity is over and done with. What else do you have to offer me that might entice me to favour you again? That might appeal to me enough to become your _Sugar Daddy_?" John waited several moments for an answer, but rather than saying anything, Sherlock just stared at him in bewilderment, his eyes wide and disbelieving.

 

John cleared his throat, breaking the silence. Then he said contemptuously: "Nothing." He sighed in chagrin. "That's what I thought." He turned around and went to the door.

 

"You said... you promised you wouldn't hurt me intentionally," Sherlock called after him. John stopped and turned back. "You lied," Sherlock said with an odd look in his eyes that didn't match the coldness of his voice.

 

"Yes, I lied. That's what people do! Everyone lies! What did you expect?" John retorted loudly. "You're a _whore_ , Goddammit, and I'm..."

 

"I thought you were at least a _man of honour_." Sherlock all but spit the word at him, but he still had that strange, empty look in his eyes. "Apparently I was wrong."

 

John ground his teeth. "Believe me – you're better off without me." And with those parting words, he left the room, slamming the door with a loud bang behind him.

 

Sherlock continued staring at the closed door, puzzled and incredulous.

 

"You also told me you _weren't_ a very nice man," he said to the empty spot where John had been standing moments before. "And I know that was a lie too." He lowered his head, and his gaze fell to the floor, where the used condom had landed. His eyebrows knitted themselves together in confusion.

 

"John Watson. I don't understand you. You are truly a puzzle."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

At the same moment, John Watson was descending the stairs of the brothel as fast as he could. He couldn't stand that lost, empty look in those fascinating, pale eyes for one more second.

 

He'd made it out just in time.

 

There was no telling what he might have let himself get dragged into otherwise...

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

**_To be continued..._ **

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**


	8. Not All Doors Lead to Narnia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again... don't get too excited. But here is another - additional - update. Because in the last chapter didn't happen anything new. Now have something with two flashbacks! And the question to the answer: "Why John stopped whistling?" *evilgrin*
> 
> And... as always...  
> Translation by the fabulous [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/profile)

**Chapter 8: Not All Doors Lead to Narnia**

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_Just as on every Monday afternoon, Irene sat in her office and tried to reconcile her employees' hours with her clients' wishes. Her task wasn't exactly made any easier by the fact that Ramon had sprained his ankle during his last – rather too enthusiastic and acrobatic – assignment, and would be out of commission for at least a week._

_She was chewing on the end of her pencil, considering the possibilities, when her door opened without her having either a) heard a knock or b) invited the visitor to come in._

_When she saw that her unsolicited guest was none other than Sherlock, she rested her chin on her hand and looked him over irritably._

_"You know perfectly well that I don't want to be disturbed when I'm working on the schedule for the coming week," she reminded him, using the tone of voice she otherwise reserved only for particularly difficult clients._

_Sherlock didn't react to the reprimand. Instead, he leaned against the door frame and buried his hands in his pockets._

_"I've decided to work for you," he declared._

_Irene raised an eyebrow._

_"And may I ask as what, exactly? Cleaner? Secretary? Or do you want to sling hash for me and the boys?"_

_His clear eyes met her gaze calmly._

_"As a hooker," he explained coolly. "I should have thought that obvious."_

_Irene twisted her carefully painted mouth into a grimace. "It's called a 'sex worker'," she corrected him._

_Sherlock considered her objection. "Oh, right – a hooker is a cheap streetwalker. A 'sex worker' suggests an establishment with class." His lips curled. "Along with a madam and all the bells and whistles."_

_"Call me a madam one more time and you'll live to regret it," Irene threatened him. "I'm a businesswoman." She inserted a calculated pause, during which she eyed him up and down, but his intentionally polished surface didn't leave any foothold for clues. She was going to have to resort to questions, distasteful as that might be. Normally, questions served only to confirm her presumptions. But it wasn't always that easy with Sherlock. There were days on which he played his cards far too close to his chest._

_"And as a businesswoman, I'm interested in hearing the reasons for your offer," she finally remarked._

_Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. "I'm bored."_

_She threw her hands in the air. "Then get a job! A real job! Or go back to school!"_

_"You know I can't do that," Sherlock retorted with barely controlled ferocity. Irene saw his hands forming fists inside his trouser pockets._

_"I only know why you don't want to," Irene replied, staring down at her desk in order to collect herself. She didn't want to get into a row with Sherlock. But sometimes he pushed her buttons so long that both of them lost their cool and started shouting at each other. Like they used to. When they were kids. Back when life had been so much easier. Although maybe it had only seemed easier._

_Irene sighed and smoothed her hands over her hair, even though there wasn't a single strand out of place; it was a gesture she always used to compose herself, and she'd never been able to break herself of it._

_"You should have left me in that alley," Sherlock murmured dully._

_"You would have ended up rotting there, and you know it," Irene rejoined, sounding tired of the argument._

_Sherlock shrugged again in a 'so what' gesture. "Well, what of it? Will you let me work for you? I'm quite good."_

_Irene let out a soft, involuntary laugh. "Modest as ever," she teased with a faint smile. "And how do you know?"_

_"How do you think I paid for my coke when I was living on the street?" Sherlock asked with calm stoicism, although there was a bitterness hidden in there that was directed solely at himself. "I'll hardly have forgotten how to suck a cock in the time I've been living here with you."_

_"Sherlock..."_

_"Oh, please," Sherlock scoffed. "Don't pretend I've succeeded in insulting your sense of delicacy. I'm certain you left it behind years ago, if you ever had any."_

_Irene gave him a calculating look then casually inspected her fingernails. "No matter what I say... I'm not going to be able to talk you out of it?"_

_"You don't need me to answer that," he chided her. "You know me well enough."_

_She chuckled softly. "Yes, you and your thick skull." She hesitated. "But it's really not necessary. I hope you know that?"_

_Sherlock lowered his eyes. "Yes, it's quite necessary," he said quietly. "You took me in... you fed me ... clothed me... Why shouldn't you profit from my talents?"_

_"Because I like taking care of you. No strings attached," Irene fired straight back._

_Sherlock shook his head, his expression doleful. "No. You're not doing it out of the goodness of your heart. You're doing it because it's something your mother would have done. You're doing it because you feel an obligation toward her." He took a deep breath before continuing: "And I shall do it because I ... feel an obligation toward you. You saved my life."_

_"Sherlock..." Irene tried to interrupt him. She had a bad feeling about the direction this conversation was taking._

_"No, Irene! Let me finish. You'll likely never hear me say it again. You saved my life. And even though I'm not yet sure whether I approve of you interfering in my affairs, I am nevertheless... indebted." He was silent for a moment then said in a somber tone: "I owe you, Irene. Let me work for you. It's the least ... or rather, the only thing I can do for you."_

_"My mother would have wanted me to take care of you," Irene finally admitted with reluctance._

_Although his face clearly displayed an 'I told you so' expression, he was kind enough not to say it out loud. "Do I want to know where your mother ..." he began haltingly, but was unable to finish the question that had been burning on his tongue ever since he'd set foot in the house, and which, for whatever reasons – reasons he didn't fully understand himself – he'd never dared to ask._

_Irene swallowed and pushed some papers around her desk with jerky movements. "A care centre. Alzheimer's, Parkinson's..." she answered in a low, emotionless voice, although the strain still came through._

_Once again, Sherlock was kind enough to remain silent and not say 'I'm sorry'._

_"I presume she has no idea how you earn your money?" he asked instead._

_"At the beginning, when I first started down this path, she might have suspected something. But she never asked, and I never rubbed her nose in it. I don't think our mothers would exactly have chosen a career in this industry for us," she concluded with a trace of sadness, mixed with a smidgen of self-mockery._

_"No, they would certainly have wished something else for us," Sherlock conceded, his voice barely audible._

_Both of them fell silent for a few moments, until Irene cleared her throat and said briskly, "I usually take fifty percent, but for you..."_

_"You can have eighty percent," Sherlock said, as if he didn't care one way or the other._

 

 _"I wanted to give_ you _sixty percent," Irene countered in surprise._

_A small, dry smile appeared on his lips. "That wouldn't be very smart business." He shook his head. "Twenty percent is enough for me, as I will continue to enjoy free room and board with you..."_

_"Oh, will you?" Irene interjected with mild sarcasm._

_"Yes, I will," Sherlock continued, not engaging her argument. "You can also give me a suit now and again, and a few shirts. After all, I should look presentable for your clients."_

_"Presentable..." Irene echoed, her voice filled with laughter. "Oh, don't worry. I'll kit you out the whole nine yards. Although you'll have plenty of admirers even without all the accoutrements. Well then..." She took out a little black book, opened it, and wrote Sherlock's name on a blank page. "Which services are you willing to offer other than blow jobs?"_

 

_Sherlock thought for a moment then said, "Hand jobs – masturbation – of course... and if any of your clients likes to dole out beatings... you can put me down for that as well."_

_Irene gave him a piercing look over the edge of her booklet. "Sherlock – you don't have to..."_

_"It's fine," Sherlock brushed her off, a faint redness appearing on his narrow, pale cheeks. "It's not a self-destructive tendency. I... like it."_

_"God," Irene huffed out with a greedy gleam in her eyes. "I'm going to make a fortune with you." She made a few notes in her book, then asked: "What about anal intercourse?"_

_"Not yet," Sherlock replied tersely._

_"What do you mean: not yet?" Irene pressed, curious._

_"I thought I might add that service to my repertoire later on. You might hold an auction..."_

_"An auction?" Irene asked. "What in the world would I be auctioning off?"_

 

_"My virginity, of course. What else?" Sherlock explained, his impatience clear. "Really, Irene – you're not usually so dense."_

_Irene took a few moments to digest that information. "We'll see," she finally said without making anything final. "Anything else? Special abilities? Preferences?"_

_"I swallow," Sherlock answered promptly. "I forgot to mention that before."_

_"You swallow," Irene repeated in a flat tone._

_"Yes. The ejaculate. I like it."_

_Irene gave him a long look, then snapped her book shut. "All right. Whatever you did before I picked you up is your business. But now you are my employee, and as such you won't receive any special treatment from me," she clarified firmly._

_"I didn't expect to," Sherlock agreed. "Although you'll probably do it anyway."_

_"Probably," Irene admitted with a reluctant sigh. "You're still going to have a blood test."_

_Sherlock pulled a face. "Must I?"_

 

_"If you're not clean, you can't work for me. All of my boys are clean. I don't tolerate any unsafe or unprotected acts in my house. Your sperm kink is over and done with as of this moment." When Sherlock didn't respond, she snapped at him: "Have you understood me?"_

_Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, Aunt Irene," he said, exaggerating his compliance._

_"And call me Aunt again, and you'll be standing for meals the next several days," Irene hissed._

_"Threat or promise?" Sherlock replied with piqued interest, then grinned and ducked when she threw the little black book at him._

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

A few days after John Watson's last visit, Irene knocked on Sherlock's door.

 

He was currently the only one of her _boys_ who lived at the brothel. Irene lived there herself since she'd had the attic converted into a generous duplex. But that wasn't surprising; after all, she owned the house and had worked hard for it.

 

At the outset of her _career_ , she'd worked as an escort but had quickly shifted lanes and become a dominatrix, which suited her own preferences much better. It still hadn't been a walk in the park, and now that she owned the brothel, she enjoyed focusing primarily on the administrative and representative side of things, letting others do the work.

 

As the owner and manager, she ran a tight ship. Still, she was never cold-hearted to her employees – or her _boys_ , as she preferred to call them. She always had an open ear for their problems, and when necessary she would offer them a shoulder to cry on. She paid all of the necessary costs for medical exams and treatments, and in case of hardship, she would also give them a place to stay.

 

Aside from her own flat on the top floor, the rooms where _business transactions_ took place on the first and second floors, and the lounges on the ground floor where guests could become acquainted with the house's offerings, the building contained three studio flats on the third floor, each with their own cooking niche and bath.

 

Over the years, a range of employees had used the rooms for a variety reasons... a relationship gone sour, a burst water pipe in their own flat, new in town and without a place to stay...

 

But none of them had taken advantage of the refuge for more than a couple of weeks. Most of them moved out again after a few days.

 

The only exception to the rule was Sherlock.

 

He'd lived here since Irene took him in – and didn't show any signs of ever intending to leave the guesthouse. In fact, since he'd set foot over the threshold, he hadn't left the house a single time.

 

Irene wondered sometimes what he would do if – God forbid – a fire ever broke out.

 

Up to now, he'd succeeded in charming the other male employees to the point that they took care of certain errands and things for him. Sherlock could be irresistibly charming and highly persuasive when he wanted to.

 

Irene knocked on the door again, more forcefully than the first time. Finally, she heard something moving on the other side of the door.

 

A key was turned in the lock, and the door opened a crack, through which a blood-shot eye blinked beneath rumpled black curls.

 

"Hello, Sherlock," she greeted him cheerfully and with a friendly smile, although her impatience was evident.

 

"Business or pleasure?" he asked flatly.

 

She tilted her head to one side and clicked her tongue. "Pleasure."

 

He sighed in an aggravated manner, but stood back in order to let her in. "If you must... come in and have a seat." He went to his bed and let himself drop down onto it with his dressing gown swirling around him dramatically and his lips shaped into an exaggerated moue of indignation.

 

Irene noted that he wasn't wearing anything under his dressing gown aside from a pair of pyjama trousers and a t-shirt that was turned the wrong way round. Anyone who knew Sherlock even the slightest bit would realise that meant he was in one of his Byronic moods again. Fantastic. As if the last time hadn't been bad enough!

 

The flat reflected the state of his psyche perfectly, being as it was in a state of extreme disorder. Overflowing ashtrays, books left open on every conceivable surface, wadded up articles of clothing twisted hopelessly together on the floor, damp towels tossed carelessly over the open wardrobe doors, two laptops running on the bed (which itself was emitting a rather interesting odour), a dried-up plant on the window sill, and piles of newspapers and magazines on and underneath the table. Irene didn't even want to chance a look at the cooking niche, in order to spare her nerves. But she couldn't help noticing a somewhat unappetising smell drifting over from that direction.

 

"How charming," Irene commented dryly.

 

Sherlock immediately took up a defensive position, like a cat that had been stroked against the grain.

 

"I'm a bachelor," he snapped. "A bit of untidiness is allowed, if not required."

 

"A bit of untidiness?" Irene gasped. "A _bit_? That has to be the understatement of the century. This used to be a quaint, cosy flat – and you've turned it into a pigsty!" Her horrified gaze fell once again on the overflowing ashtrays, which she then pointed to. "And what is the meaning of this? I demand an immediate explanation!"

 

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders indifferently. "I'm trying to quit."

 

"By only smoking half of each cigarette?" she cried incredulously. "You've taken leave of your senses!"

 

That seemed to be the end of Sherlock's patience, as his expression changed suddenly to become alert, distrustful, and closed.

 

"What do you want?" he demanded curtly.

 

Irene felt it appropriate that she sit. She pulled the only empty chair closer and lowered herself onto it with exaggerated care. With practised elegance, she crossed her legs before turning her full attention on him.

 

"I want to know if you're finished pouting and ready to work again."

 

Sherlock snorted in derision. "So it is business after all. I should have known."

 

"A pleasurable business," she corrected him with a concerted effort at remaining polite, all the while glaring at him angrily.

 

"I'm not pouting," he asserted with an arrogant sniff.

 

Irene counted slowly to ten. She lost her patience before she got to eight. "Fine! See if I care! You're not pouting. You're grieving or wallowing in self-pity. No matter what you call this mood you've made yourself at home in: when are you going to be done with it and go back to work?"

 

Sherlock sneered. "I'm poorly."

 

"You served that whopper up to me four days ago," Irene huffed angrily. "And I'm still not buying it. You're playing the blues because Doc Watson hasn't been back to see you. Am I right or am I right? Have you ever considered that he simply doesn't have time, and is too busy to service your greedy little arse again right now?" She'd let herself say more than she wanted, and put the brakes on hard now. "My God, Sherlock. He'll turn up again sooner or later."

 

Sherlock listened silently to her tirade, and although he hadn't said anything the whole time, he became even more quiet now.

 

"No, he won't," Sherlock replied in a hollow voice, turning his eyes away for the first time since Irene had entered the flat.

 

Irene blinked. Had she understood that correctly?

 

"What?" she asked, confused. "No... Of course he will..."

 

Sherlock slammed his hand down on the mattress. "He's not coming back!" he yelled, furious, even as his eyes continued to fix on an invisible spot on the floor.

 

Irene looked him over with an air of appraisal. "I can't imagine that being the case. How can you be so sure?"

 

"He told me himself." Sherlock swallowed audibly. "I don't understand..." he began in a low voice. "He was so nice to me... even though he said he wasn't a nice person. His actions spoke a different language than his words. It's not even as if he would have needed to be nice to me... Most of the clients I've serviced up to now don't even know the meaning of the words _kindness_ or _respect_. At least not towards me."

 

That statement gave Irene something to think about, and hit her hard. She hadn't known – nor even suspected – that Sherlock would be so affected by the thoughtless (and sometimes heartless) behaviour of some of their clients.

 

"It appears that you've finally learned to temper your tongue when dealing with clients," Irene couldn't help but remark. Guests had complained all too often about Sherlock's sharp tongue, and those jeers – all but asking for disrespect from his customers - had been the cause of vengeful acts directed at him just as often. He'd always taken it all without complaint, however, never denouncing a client or refusing another appointment with the person in question.

 

Sherlock shook his head, and Irene's inner glee died out.

 

"No... I promise you, I acted the same toward him as I always do. I was my usual charming self," he added with a lopsided, unhappy grin.

 

Irene's eyebrows shot up in amazement. "And he still came back for more? I never would have thought he was the kind of man who would accept behaviour like that from you. You must have done something right despite everything else," Irene asserted before noticing the sceptical expression on Sherlock's face. "You're not usually so dense," she said, repaying him for the countless times she'd been the recipient of those very words. "Think about it: he could have fucked you right away when he won you at the auction. That very first night. But did he? No. He decided to spend a second night with you. Voluntarily. A man like that doesn't do that unless he's completely smitten." She folded her hands in her lap in satisfaction. "He already came back. And he'll be back again. It's just a matter of time."

 

However, her words didn't have the desired effect on Sherlock. Instead of coming alive again and looking forward to the future with renewed hope, he became angry.

 

"No! It isn't! It is _not_ a matter of time. He left. And he's never coming back and I..." His voice broke, yet he continued on: "And I... I'm going to have to get used to it. I don't want your fake comfort. I don't need your empty words. I need..." He gulped. "It's just so... He gave me so much one moment, and the next... he took it all away... and I... I miss..." He broke off and took a deep breath. "And on top of everything else I'm so bloody _turned on_ all the time. Since he left this house, I've been virtually salivating for _his_ touch. The mere thought of what he did to me... It's enough to arouse me. It's horrendous! I could climb the walls. It's driving me mad and there's absolutely nothing I can do." Sherlock ruffled his hair in exasperation.

 

Irene listened breathlessly. It happened quite often that he rattled off a masterful monologue, but it was rare that he revealed something of himself through those speeches. She'd never seen him so agitated before. She felt the stirrings of sympathy in her breast, yet she couldn't help letting loose with her sharp tongue.

 

"You do know there's this thing called masturbation, don't you?"

 

" _Yes_ , I know!" His eyes were both icy and irascible. "I've tried that. Twice."

 

Irene raised her left eyebrow. "Twice," she drawled.

 

"A day!" Sherlock hissed. "I can do it as often as I want. It doesn't help!"

 

"My goodness!" Irene exclaimed with false theatricality. "Whatever did I do to deserve a punishment like this? A randy rent boy and no solution in sight! Oh... wait... I just remembered I run a brothel and you work for me! Swing your sweet little arse down to the lounge and earn me some money!"

 

"No," Sherlock said, flipping his dressing gown over his legs as if it might offer him an additional layer of protection against the attack he expected from her.

 

"Lord God in heaven! Give me patience!" Irene cried, turning her eyes upward before fixing them again on Sherlock. "Why not? Why don't you want to work? I should think it would cure you of whatever you're suffering from."

 

"I told you before, I'm sick," Sherlock answered stubbornly.

 

"Lovesick perhaps," Irene remarked sourly, crossing her arms over her chest.

 

"Love..." Sherlock scoffed. "One needs a heart in order to love. And we both know all too well that I don't have one."

 

"We? Speak for yourself, darling."

 

As was to be expected, he reacted violently to the nickname. "Stop calling me that!"

 

Her expression softened in the face of his protest. "You have a heart. I know you do. But it's so small that it's easy for you to hide it from other people. It takes a very patient man to find it... and because it's been hurt so much and is so damaged, it needs a good doctor to heal it."

 

"A good doctor?" he asked, one eyebrow cocked and nostrils flared. "You never get tired of that innuendo, do you?"

 

She grinned. "Not really. I find it rather amusing. Don't you?" She took note of his dark glare and the thunderous way his eyebrows were drawn together and backpedalled a bit by changing the topic. "Well? How long do you plan on playing the hypochondriac?"

 

"How should I know?" he retorted in a shirty tone accompanied by a grim scowl.

 

"But you are coming back?" she pressed doggedly.

 

He sighed and nodded. "Fine. Eventually..." he added in a peevish, doleful voice.

 

Irene rolled her eyes. "You're too gracious, your worshipfulness," she said sarcastically before cutting herself off. She gave him a quick, appraising look and then asked with a sudden wave of empathy, "I presume you're going to go back to your original repertoire as soon as you're ready to return to work? Hands and mouth?"

 

He nodded tightly, whereby he avoided looking at her directly, instead focusing on a spot next to her shoulder. "I'd prefer it."

 

"Fine." She made as if to stand. "But don't forget to tell me if you change your mind and want to offer up that luscious arse as well. I know a few men who'd be willing to pay a pretty penny for it."

 

All of a sudden, Sherlock was overcome by a peculiar disquiet. He fiddled with the seam of his dressing gown and avoided her eyes so obviously that Irene froze then sank back down onto the chair.

 

She couldn't help all of her alarms going off at the sight of Sherlock so discomfited. She knew the signs. He was about to ask her for something he didn't want to ask for, and she was going to agree to something she would normally never agree to.

 

"As long as we're on _the_ subject... You have to do me a favour," he blurted out. Now that he'd taken the first step, he was once again able to look her in the eye.

 

Irene reacted in a guarded manner. "I don't think I really _care_ to," she replied brusquely.

 

"Whatever..." Sherlock made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "You need to have my blood tested. I'll give you a sample tomorrow, and you..."

 

But he didn't get any further in his instructions before Irene interrupted him with a shrill cry.

 

"Sherlock!" she shrieked angrily. " _What. Did. You. Do?_ "

 

Sherlock met her eyes sheepishly, looking like guilt personified. "Whatever makes you think I might have done something? I would simply like to know whether I'm... healthy."

 

"You swallowed again!" Irene yelled accusatorily. "I should have known. You goddamned idiot! Safe sex! Is that too complicated for that genius bird brain of yours? You know perfectly well that all it takes is one tiny accident – a tear, an injury to your gums, any small wound in your mouth is enough to infect you! I've told you a _hundred_ times..."

 

"You always exaggerate so," Sherlock broke in, completely unimpressed and with barely disguised ennui. "It's fifty-seven times now, including this one. Hardly a hundred."

 

"Lord God! Give me strength!" Irene swore fervently.

 

"There's no reason to turn religious," Sherlock muttered, but Irene ignored it.

 

"Fifty-seven times and you still won't listen! Why in all the world do you do something so stupid? _Why_?"

 

Sherlock's mouth narrowed to a thin, angry line. "I'm bored!" he yelled. "And I _love_ the taste of semen! I love the feeling of a hard, thick cock stuck down deep in the back of my throat... The way it almost chokes me and floods me with ejaculate. That's it. That's what I want!" He was breathing hard and biting his lips, both aroused and angry. "And although I'm the one down on my knees in the submissive position, I'm also the one who has all the power!" Something like fierce triumph gleamed in his eyes. "I'm the one making them come! And I love swallowing it all and going down with it!" He gasped for breath, as if he were actually in danger of submerging and drowning, only to lower his eyes once again after one last, wild look in Irene's direction. "To go down with it... to drown in it... to lose myself in it ... to forget myself..." His final words were almost lost as they faded into a barely audible whisper.

 

Irene passed her hands over her eyes in a gesture of exhaustion and resignation. "I was always afraid you'd swap your cocaine addiction for something else," she said quietly. "I always wondered what the substitute would be – what else you'd try to destroy yourself with. Now I know."

 

Silence sank over the room.

 

"It's not like that," Sherlock murmured.

 

"No matter..." Irene said with a small sigh as she stood. "I can only guess what's brought about this sudden change of heart, but at least you're finally thinking of your health. I'll take it. That's all I ever wanted. You can give me your blood sample tomorrow, and I'll see what I can do."

 

"Thank you," Sherlock whispered. "You know... it wasn't always like this. I always had a reputation for ... swallowing anything, but I didn't really start doing it until I... was living on the streets."

 

Irene shook her head, both touched and irritated. "Sherlock, you don't have to tell me this. It's..."

 

"I know," Sherlock cut her off in his typical forward manner. "But I don't want you to think I'm ... an _idiot_. Before ... _that_ period of time ... I'd only had semen in my mouth twice." He took a deep breath. "The first time I was curious, but we were both ... so young. There was practically no risk. The second time..." He laughed bitterly. "That was at uni. He was so worked up over another boy sucking him off that he came after thirty seconds. I hadn't counted on that. It took me by surprise. After... he spread it around that I'd..." He sighed softly. "It's not important. That was the end of my reputation at any rate. A reputation I didn't begin to live up to until years later," he concluded with a certain degree of fatalism.

 

"I really don't know how I've put up with you for so long," Irene remarked. It was supposed to come across playfully, in order to lighten the bleak mood which had fallen over the room and affected Irene much more than she wanted it to. But there ended up being quite a lot of empathy and tenderness in her voice.

 

Only now did he raise his gaze to meet hers. "Do you know, sometimes I ask myself that too," he replied with an uneven grin, which was reflected back by Irene.

 

"You vastly underestimate your charisma. You are seduction personified – pure sex on two legs. I've even been tempted a time or two. And we both know that I prefer women in general. But with you? I truly believe I'd make an exception for you."

 

"Oh please!" He grimaced in disgust. "We've been over that more than enough. Girlfriends are really not my area."

 

"Poor dear," Irene cooed, fluttering her eyes coquettishly. "You misunderstand me. I don't want to be your _girlfriend_ ," she explained, winking in a lewd manner.

 

Sherlock's frown deepened. "Perhaps I should have been clearer myself. _Vaginas_ are not my area."

 

Irene's smile spread into a cheeky grin. "I have a strap-on dildo in my bedroom and I know how to use it. Well? Still not interested? I think I'd be perfectly able to satisfy certain of your needs with it."

 

The frown mutated into a horrified expression. "Now you're just being stupid and vulgar. Go away. You know where the door is."

 

Irene chuckled throatily. "I'm just trying to cheer you up," she declared cheerfully, but then she noticed an enduring, underlying sadness in his eyes, and her laughter dried up. "He'll come back," she said, suddenly sober. "Believe me. I know what I'm talking about."

 

"Believe you?" Sherlock said wryly. "I wish I could."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Just a few miles yet an entire world away, John Watson was sitting in his office at his desk, studying the weekly reports of his various business activities.

 

The office at his house was furnished simply, but that didn't stop it from containing one or two symbols of his power. Thus it was that a bookcase covering two walls dominated the room. The material that had been used to build it – and his desk - was a rare and expensive tropical wood. John never paid attention to the name. He wasn't uneducated, but he didn't like to burden his brain with details that were of little use to his business. He'd chosen the wood not only because it was expensive, but also because he liked the dark colouring, similar to amber, and the pattern of the grain. He felt that it lent a certain air to his office ... an aura of strength that new business partners didn't always pick up on automatically due to his modest physical size.

 

Mike Stamford was sitting diagonally across from him in a cream-coloured leather armchair, part of a suite of furniture where John liked to hold conversations on a _level playing field_. If he wanted to impress and intimidate someone, on the other hand... then he remained seated behind his desk, and his visitor would remain standing in front of him like a supplicant: it was quite intentional that there were no other chairs.

 

Mike leafed idly through some papers, licking his index finger in order to turn them over more easily.

 

"The deal with the Baskervilles went pretty well," he remarked after a while without looking up from the papers.

 

"Yeah, it did," John replied absently. He stared blankly at his records, realising that he had no idea what he'd read during the last five minutes. With a soft groan, he cast an eye over the other two folders waiting for him to look them over. Then he closed the folder that was lying in front of him and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

 

"I wouldn't have thought that deal would go down so easily. Not after that rocky start we had," Mike said with a small, almost incredulous smile that nevertheless expressed his satisfaction. "Did you go see that fellow at Adler's again? What was his name? Something prissy... Hemlock ... Shamrock... Shylock?" He moistened his index finger again and turned a page, looking over at John questioningly.

 

"Sherlock," John replied tersely. "Yes, I was there a second time."

 

John knew from experience that, should he refuse to answer, Mike would keep nagging until he gave up the desired information. But that was the price he paid for having made an old friend his closest confidant and advisor. At least Mike would never stab him in the back. Neither literally nor figuratively – and that was an invaluable advantage that far outweighed any other disadvantages. Still, there were certain things that were really none of Mike's business. And one of them was the confusing desires that his two visits with Sherlock had unleashed in him, and that he wanted nothing more than to forget – or at least suppress. The sooner the better.

 

"Well?" Mike asked innocently. "Was he any good?"

 

John fixed him with a sharp look. "Why do you want to know?"

 

Mike lowered the papers in his hands onto his lap. "What bit you?" he asked, bewildered. "Can't I ask an old mate if he's had a bit of fun any more? I'm worried about you! You've been so... _out of sorts_ lately. Your mood improved a lot after the first time you saw him. You were even whistling, John! Whistling! The last time I heard you whistle..."

 

"Yeah, all right, got it!" John cut him off rudely. "You're only worried about my well-being." A hard glint had come into his eyes. Mike frowned. "I was there, I fucked him, I left. It was fine. That's it. End of story. Happy?"

 

"Fine?" Mike exclaimed. " _'Fine'_ is right next door to _'shitty'_. Was it really that terrible?"

 

John pushed his chin forward and bit his lips. "What do you want to hear?" He was frothing with barely controlled rage. "That he's the best cocksucker I've ever come across? That he was an extraordinary fuck? We're here to get some work done! Not to chat about my latest sexual escapades!"

 

Mike looked at his friend with his eyes wide and his brows raised.

 

"My God, Johnny... No reason to tear me a new one. I got it. Just telegraph it, no need to beat me over the head with the pole," he tried to placate his friend. "All right – back to work." He licked his finger and paged through the sheets in his lap, all the while thinking back to a certain day over ten years earlier, the last time John had whistled.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_It was early evening when Mike Stamford and John Watson emerged from the Tube station onto the London streets. The weather on that pleasant summer day was still mild enough that both young men had taken off their jackets and hooked them over one shoulder._

_"Did you really need to turn that table into toothpicks?" Mike resumed the discussion they'd had to interrupt for the duration of the subway ride._

_"Yes," John replied with a reckless, pigheaded air. "You saw how quick they coughed up the cash after that. Couldn't pay for their protection fast enough. I think the boss will be more than happy."_

_Mike frowned. "But all that noise and commotion... One of these times, someone's going to be passing by and notice something. One of these times..."_

_"And what do you suggest?" John broke in testily. "Should I toss cotton balls at them until they pay?"_

_There was a longsuffering sigh. "No, that's not what I meant either. I just thought... break something else. Something... that makes less noise."_

_John sucked thoughtfully on the inside of his cheek. His anger flickered and faded as quickly as it had flamed up. And anyway, he couldn't stay angry at his old friend Mike for long._

_"Maybe..." he began hesitantly. "Most of these places have an espresso machine ... one of those big ones with chrome everywhere ... they're pretty bloody expensive, aren't they?"_

 

_John received an appreciative look. "That's a fantastic idea, Johnny. Those machines always have an Achilles heel... some little bit or bob that they can't do without. Easy to destroy ... minimum effort – maximum effect."_

_John nodded, satisfied. "No noise, no big scene... perfect. Angelo has one of those too. When we have dinner there tonight, we should have him show us how it works."_

_Mike appeared well satisfied too. "Brilliant. That's what we'll do."_

_"Do you think the boss will be enthusiastic about our idea?" John asked animatedly._

_Mike rolled his eyes. "Not again, Johnny..."_

_John punched Mike playfully in the side. "I'm getting sick of all these shakedowns. I want a shot at the better jobs. I want to move up! And I'm going to! Some day I'm going to be in charge of the whole operation, and you're going to be my trusty advisor," John declared generously, certain of his success._

_"Sure, sure..." Mike said, sounding bored. He'd heard this spiel before. "And pigs are going to learn to fly."_

 

_"Go ahead and laugh!" John retorted. "You'll see!"_

_In the meantime, they'd arrived at the block of flats where John lived. It wasn't the best part of town, but at least no one cared that he shared the flat with another man. Everyone in this neighbourhood minded their own business, and anyway, no one wanted to get mixed up in how a mobster chose to live his life. Even if he was just a small wheel in the gears of the bigger machine, there were quite a few perks to not being a med student any more._

_"Okay," John said, shrugging his shoulders. "Do you want to wait here or come up a minute?"_

_"Could I just use the loo?" Mike pleaded._

_"Sure thing," John answered. "I'll collect Victor in the meantime, and you can call Susan so she can get herself ready." He checked his expensive wristwatch, which appeared utterly out of place next to his worn shirt cuffs, but John had a weakness for such decorative status symbols. "You've reserved the table for the four of us beauties for seven o'clock?" He waited for Mike to nod his confirmation. "All right. Your car's parked right around the corner... by the time we're at yours and picked up your wife... then the drive to Angelo's..."_

_"Hey," Mike exclaimed good-naturedly. "You can stop trying to juggle things around. You won't have enough time for a quickie with your sweetie. And even if you did – you're not going to get it on with him while I'm sitting on your shitter."_

_John grinned. "Didn't know you could be such a prude," he teased his friend._

_Mike grinned too. "Well, you know, I'm just a square at heart."_

_John opened the door to the building, and together they stepped into the cool, musty smelling stairwell._

_"Why does it always smell like damp cabbage in these places?" Mike asked rhetorically, not expecting an answer, before he changed the subject. "Say – you and Victor... going well, is it?"_

_"You could say that," John replied with a rare, affectionate smile as they ascended the stairs._

_"How long have the two of you been together anyway?" Mike asked with an amused smirk._

_John punched his friend in the shoulder. "You know exactly how long! You were there when I chatted him up." Then his face took on a dreamy expression. "Three years..." he said softly._

_Mike shook his head with an incredulous smile. "You and Victor Trevor... I'd never have thought you'd be one to settle down."_

_"Me either," John confessed in a quiet voice. "Me either. But..." He stopped on the step he was on and laid his hand firmly on Mike's shoulder. "Do you know, I was bloody envious of you last year. When you married Susan." Mike shook his head, taken aback, noticing to his amazement that John was turning red. "Victor... I think... he's the one... and we can't..." John swallowed hard and shook his head. "I can't believe I'm telling you this... but I saw a ring at the jeweller's in Green Street, and even though I can't really marry Victor..."_

_"My God, Johnny..." Mike whispered, appearing happy if startled. Then he clapped John on the shoulder and laughed. "You're a bloody lucky dog, Johnny. Victor's a real prize. And once he's done with his studies and becomes a famous architect and is raking in the dough... how much longer does he need?"_

 

_"Two more years," John sighed, trying to rein in his emotions again. "I'm damn proud of him. He swots like mad when I'm not there."_

_"Not like you when you were at school," Mike teased him and John grinned._

_As they continued up the stairs, John whistled happily to himself. It was the tune of the Toreador song from the opera_ 'Carmen' _._

 

_John liked to whistle, and he enjoyed classical music. But in the circles where he spent nearly all of his time these days, his preference for the genre was regarded as something feminine and weak, something that didn't suit his image as a tough bag man. For that reason, he limited his repertoire to well-known, popular arias and other pieces that were above reproach._

_Still whistling and in good humour, he unlocked the door to his flat – and froze. The tune died on his lips as he took in the chaos that was his living room._

_It wasn't until he heard Mike murmur, "Oh my God," that his paralysis lifted, and he ran into the bedroom._

_"VICTOR?! Victor – where are you?" he screamed, horrified, and tore the door open. But there was no one in the bedroom. Here too, he found the same scene as in the other room – ripped out drawers, gaping open cabinets ... clothing and books everywhere._

_"John!"_

_All of a sudden, Mike was standing next to him, pressing an envelope into his hand. His name was written on it. It was in Victor's handwriting. As if in a trance, he took a single sheet of paper out of the envelope._

 

_"Was lying on the kitchen table," Mike said roughly. "If it was that fucking gang whose place we trashed last week, I swear..."_

_"He's gone," John cut him off in a voice that seemed to come from far away._

_"What?" Mike responded, not understanding._

_"He's gone. Victor is gone."_

_"What do you mean_ 'gone' _? He was abducted, wasn't he?"_

_"No," John said. "He wasn't abducted. He's just left me." He handed the paper to Mike with a feeble gesture and walked past him._

_Mike heard John drop onto the couch, then he began to decipher Victor's writing, utterly lost._

 

"John,

 

I can't keep living like this. I never agreed with you joining the mob, but you didn't listen to me. You never listened to me. I wanted you to quit, to take up your studies again, because I knew the company you were keeping wasn't doing you any good. And my fears were justified, as it turns out – you've changed. I tried to tell you, but you didn't listen to me. Again. You're not the witty med student I fell in love with. You've been reduced to nothing more than a stooge. A criminal with one foot in prison already. I don't want to go on like this. So I'm leaving. I've taken what's mine. I'm leaving the unsuitably expensive gifts you gave me when we were together. They're on your night stand.

 

Good-bye,

 

Victor

 

P.S. Do me a favour ... if you do feel something for me – which I doubt at this point – don't look for me."

 

 

 

_Mike's gaze slid from the last curl on the signature to the side tables flanking the double bed. Indeed, there it all was: expensive watches, two gold chains, bracelets, a silver lighter, engraved cigarette cases, tie pins with and without precious gems, cuff links in gold and silver._

 

_Mike slowly turned and went back to the living room, where John was sitting cowering on the couch. His forehead was on his knees, and his arms and hands were slung over his head in a protective position._

_"I could drum up a couple of the fellows," Mike suggested softly and a little uncertainly. "They could look for him. He can't have got very far yet... I think they could probably bring him back. You should..."_

_"No," John interrupted in a dull voice, only now looking up. His eyes were red-rimmed, but his cheeks were dry._

_"No?" Mike checked, just to be sure. "Really? You want to let him get away with this?"_

_John nodded silently. "This morning... just this morning... we were shagging like rabbits, and he told me..." His voice broke, but he continued nevertheless: "...how much he loved me. And he must have already known... He probably had the letter already written in the drawer." He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "No. He wants to get away from me, and I... I admit, it sounds pretty damn good to give him a pounding, but... no."_

 

_Mike shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. "You never said anything about there being a disagreement between the two of you because of what you do... what we do."_

_A despairing laugh escaped John's throat. "There never was. We never argued about it – he did say a couple of times he'd rather I didn't... but that was it. Fuck! He can't have been so afraid of me that he didn't dare say anything?" He looked at Mike, the self-doubt written so large in his expression that Mike didn't know what to say._

_"John, I..."_

_"Dammit, Mike!" John cried hopelessly. "I wouldn't have touched a hair! No matter what he said to me!"_

 

_To his own private shame, Mike had to admit to himself that he wasn't so sure about his friend's reaction. He knew how ambitious and unscrupulous John was when he was on an assignment, and he'd pieced together from various hints that John preferred it a little rough in bed as well. It was entirely possible that Victor had really feared for his life at the hands of his partner. Whether rightly or not, Mike couldn't and didn't want to answer. At the very least his fear (whether imagined or not) and repugnance had been great enough to convince Victor of the necessity of a clandestine flight._

_Mike laid the letter on the coffee table and ran his hand through his hair. "Come with me to my place. I'll call Susan and have her cook some spaghetti for us," he suggested somewhat clumsily. "We'll eat something, we'll drink a couple of beers, and then you'll sleep on our couch. Everything will look different tomorrow."_

_John smiled crookedly. "Thanks, Mike." He took a deep breath. "But I'd rather stay here."_

_"Really?" Mike pressed. "I don't think that's a very good idea. Come on. Susan's been looking forward to seeing you for days."_

_"It's okay. I'll be fine. That Susan of yours is a saint... kiss her for me, okay?" John said, rubbing his hand tiredly over his face._

_Mike hesitated. "Well... all right... if you're sure..." He went to the door. "Call me if you need anything. No matter what. You got it?"_

_"Yes, Auntie Mike," John needled him half-heartedly. "I'll be a good boy. I'll ring you tomorrow, all right?"_

_"All right." Mike nodded. "Tomorrow." Then he left, and John was alone._

**_oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo_ **

 

_Three hours later, Mike's buzzer rang. When he opened the door, John was standing before him with the downcast look of a cocker spaniel._

_"All right," Mike said tightly. "What's up?"_

_"I wasn't a good boy," John confessed contritely. "Can I sleep here tonight?"_

_"Of course," Mike said immediately, standing aside to let him in. "But... why'd you come after all? What have you done?"_

_"I don't have a bed anymore," John replied, looking shame-facedly to the side. "No flat, either, come to think of it."_

_"What have you done?" Mike cried, although he could picture several scenarios quite vividly. Arson was the worst one that occurred to him._

_"You remember that baseball bat we used a few weeks ago for that job? Yeah, I still had it ... and it's possible... I may have taken my flat apart with it," John explained evasively._

_Mike shook his head. At least it wasn't as bad as he'd thought at first. "Okay – you can stay here tonight. But I have two things to say to you – If you leave so much as one scratch in this flat, Susan will kill you. And if you're serious about this as a career, like you always say, you're going to have to learn to control that deuced temper of yours. Got it?"_

 

_"Yes, Auntie Mike," John replied obediently and without a trace of sarcasm._

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

**_To be continued..._ **

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**


	9. Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation as always by the amazing [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/profile)
> 
> Not brit-picked - but we did our best. Hope you enjoy it nevertheless.

**Chapter 9: Alone**

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Two days after his last conversation with Mike, John returned home from a business meeting and went directly into his office. As they'd agreed, Mike was already waiting for him in order to discuss some further business matters. Mike had made himself comfortable at John's desk. It spoke volumes for their long friendship and the trust that was part of that friendship that Mike could take such liberties. John would have shortened anyone else by a head for such impudence, but there were other rules in play for his old friend. A quick glance told John that Mike hadn't been idle in the meantime, as he was looking through the mail and had already handled some of it.

 

At least John wouldn't have to take care of it. Secretly, he was grateful for Mike's dedication. It wasn't actually his job to do things like that, but whenever he could, he took over one tedious, time-consuming job or another from John.

 

John loosened his tie, undid the top button of his shirt collar, and sighed in relief. He knew why he generally preferred polo neck tops.

 

"The meeting over already?" Mike asked, glancing up from the two-page letter he was holding in his hands.

 

"As you can see," John retorted, throwing himself into one of the cream-coloured leather armchairs and removing his bespoke shoes without using his hands. Another contented sigh sounded. It was refreshing that he didn't have to uphold any kind of facade with Mike.

 

"Tough meeting?" Mike asked sympathetically.

 

"You could say that," John responded absently, staring at his stockinged feet. Then he suddenly jumped up again and started to pace back and forth in front of his desk. "The mayoral elections are causing a lot of headaches. No matter what it costs, we have to avoid the same thing happening as in the elections in Leicester last year. They've had nothing but trouble since. We need to make sure that _our_ man wins here in London."

 

Mike highlighted a couple of lines in the document he was working on, slid it into a clear sheet protector, and laid it aside.

 

"Consider it done," he told John without looking up. "I know just the right people. People with big, empty pockets who are just waiting for us to fill them." He picked up the next letter. "Do we have to stick to any particular budget?"

 

John shook his head before realising that Mike couldn't see him because he was already skimming the letter.

 

"No – no budget. No limit. The outcome of this election is of the utmost importance for our business dealings. We can't afford to skimp. That would be cutting the wrong corners."  


"Noted," Mike said, and laid the letter on a different pile than the previous one. "Anything else?" He stood up and selected a file folder from the shelf behind the desk, pulled it out, and flipped through it while he stood there.

 

"Bayswater Road," John hissed, irritated, and stopped prowling around in front of his desk. "There's trouble down that way. Again!"

 

Mike closed the folder and set it on the desk. "Yeah, I thought so," he agreed as if he were still considering something. "Who should we send in to clean it up?"

 

"The Schultz brothers," John decided promptly.

 

Mike's face distorted into a painfed grimace. "Oh, John," he groaned. "Come on! Not the Schultz brothers!"

 

"Why not?" John shot back calmly, but there was a cold, dangerous glint in his eyes.

 

Mike failed to notice his friend's mood swing, which would turn out to be a disastrous miscalculation.

 

"Because those two apes always end up causing a bloodbath with all those knives," Mike explained with a sigh. "Let me set something up with Luigi and Paul. Those two are quick, quiet, efficient, and they don't leave a mess behind. They're exactly the way killers should be: reliable and clean. Not like those Schultz brothers, the butchers." His mouth twisted scornfully.

 

John held his hands behind his back, vibrating with barely controlled agitation. "But I want a bloodbath!" he barked at Mike. "Let the police and the reporters all think they've stumbled into a slaughterhouse! I want them to have to wade in there up to their ankles!"

 

Mike took a deep breath. When John was in such a terrible mood as this, it was advisable to choose one's words deliberately.

 

"Is that really necessary?" he asked carefully.

 

"Yes, dammit! It bloody well is!" John roared, and Mike was alarmed to see a vein pop out on his temple – which only happened when he was in a towering rage.

 

"It's bloody well necessary for me to make an example out of them!" John screamed. "Or do you want everyone to think I haven't got any bollocks any more? Is that what you want? Do you want those arsewipes to think I grew a minge overnight so they could fuck me over better? Do you want those buggering bastards to fuck me like one of their whores? Do I look like one of their bloody fucking whores?"

 

"Jesus Christ... Johnny! Calm down. You're going to blow a gasket," Mike tried to soothe his friend. He raised his hands in a placating gesture. "All right, fine. We'll do it your way. You want a bloodbath – you'll get a bloodbath. But just as a warning, so you know ... get ready for DI Dimmock to send us a dry-cleaning bill."

 

"I couldn't give a flying fuck!" John cried. "Buy him a new suit. Buy him new shoes and socks while you're at it! Send one of my cards along: _Best regards for loyal service – the Mob_!"

 

Mike sucked on his lower lip and tilted his head deliberately from side to side. "I think that might be a tad much. Don't you?"

 

The remark seemed to throw John for a curve. A faint grin appeared on his face, and he struggled to take a breath. "Fine – you can leave out the card. He knows which side his bread's buttered on either way." He rubbed one hand over his face, both exhausted and agitated, then focused on Mike again. The red gleam in his eyes hadn't completely died out, and Mike was alert for whatever might come next.

 

"As long as we're clearing the air..." John began in a cooler voice. "Why didn't you tell me about those idiots making trouble on Bayswater Road?"

 

Mike allowed himself to breathe out a small sigh of relief and emerged from behind the desk, walking toward John. "I told you about the whole mess a week ago," he answered calmly. "I guess you weren't listening. You were probably too busy being annoyed with yourself because you enjoyed the company of that Sherlock kid more than... My God... JOHN!"

 

Quicker than Mike had thought possible, John had drawn his gun, closed the scant yards between them with a series of rapid steps, and pressed the barrel of his weapon against the underside of Mike's double chin. Mike didn't dare to so much as blink, much less breathe.

 

"Are you trying to suggest I was neglecting my business because I was drooling after some cheap cocksucker?" John hissed in an icy, threatening tone.

 

"Johnny-boy... please..." Mike made sure to use the old nickname from their childhood days, even as he sent up a quick prayer. "Put the gun down. It's me... Mikey. You don't really want to shoot me... right?"

 

But John didn't seem to hear him. " _I am not in love with some whore!_ " he growled from between gritted teeth.

 

Mike swallowed, which only served to press the barrel of the gun further into the soft, vulnerable tissue under his chin. It was never a good idea to show fear when John was in a rage. But he was more scared at this moment than he'd ever been in his life.

 

"Who said anything about love?" he croaked. "I sure didn't."

 

As if a switch had been thrown, John seemed to come back to his right mind. He stared at Mike as if he'd never seen him before in his life, then looked down at the weapon in his hand, aghast, and slowly lowered his arm.

 

"Fuck... Mike.. I..." He had turned as pale as Mike. As if in a fog, he turned his back on his friend and took several unsteady steps away from him, seeking the physical distance. "I didn't want to... FUCK!" he screamed, his voice full of anger and frustration.

 

Then there was a soft _click_ , and Mike dared to take a normal breath again. John had put the safety back on his gun. As discreetly as possible, he wiped the cold sweat from his brow, his hand shaking.

 

"You scared me half shitless. Never would have thought you'd get so worked up over... " He chose his next words carefully. "... another man. But aside from that... I wouldn't exactly call him _cheap_. I saw the debit charge when the cheque cleared your account. The amount of money you paid that Adler for his services could tell stories to its grandkids. Was he worth it after all that? All the stress and upset?"

 

John sighed and let his shoulders droop before he turned back toward Mike. A lopsided, contrite and almost self-deprecating smile passed over his lips. "He went far beyond my expectations. He..." John shook his head. "I don't know if I have the words to describe him. He's an insufferable wanker."

 

"Sounds like you're pretty smitten." Mike grinned knowingly.

 

"Mike!" John protested. But the exclamation didn't carry any acrimony. "I can't be smitten with a..." He sounded exhausted and defeated. "For God's sake! The man is a prostitute!"

 

"I know," Mike said calmly. "So?"

 

John looked at his friend as if he'd lost his mind. "You cannot be serious! You aren't seriously going to tell me to..."

 

"Fine – then don't." Mike shrugged his shoulders carelessly. "Let me hear _your_ solution to the problem. And don't try to deny that this bloke’s become a problem for you." Mike registered with grim satisfaction that John snapped his mouth shut like a schoolboy who'd been caught red-handed. "He became a problem right about when you decided to turn your gun on me." Mike fixed him with an unflinching look. "Did you really plan on never seeing him again? Even though he improved your mood so much?" Mike pointed out.

 

"Never seeing him again would be the right thing to do," John murmured flatly.

 

Mike let out a short, barking laugh. "When was the last time you actually _wanted_ to do the _right_ _thing_?"

 

"I don't know!" John cried in exasperation. "But I know it would be a disaster if I saw him again," he repeated obstinately.

 

"Why?" Mike asked, unimpressed. "Why shouldn't you see him again? You could set up regular appointments with him. All right, so he's a prostitute. So what? At least he's a professional. You haven't had much luck with amateurs lately. Pay him. Spend a couple of nice hours with him. I won't think any less of you. You're my friend. If it makes you feel better, what do I care what the reason is?" He shrugged his shoulders easily. "And when you're done with him... when it's over – then buy him a nice watch, tell him _good-bye_ , send him on his way and that's it."

 

John listened to everything attentively. "So... you think I should...?" he began hesitantly.

 

Mike sighed. "John, I have no idea what you _should_ do. But I've known you long enough to know what you _want_."

 

Several seconds ticked by while John stared off into space. "FUCK!" he finally swore heartily.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

 _The raindrops fell on the green summer foliage of the weeping willow with a soft_ plop-plop-plop _. Sherlock had always found it somewhat morbid that weeping willows were given preferential treatment over other greenery in the landscaping of cemeteries. Today he couldn't have cared less._

 

 _The raindrops fell with a dull_ plunk-plunk-plunk _on his father's coffin. Sherlock stood by helplessly, watching as the expensive mahogany surrounding his father's body was lowered by the pall bearers into the freshly dug grave. The dark earth heaped up next to the grave was turning into loamy lumps that would be dropped onto the lid of his father's coffin with a loathsome, heavy_ splat-splat _by the gravediggers' shovels._

 

_Sherlock dreaded the sound already._

_Sherlock fought with every fibre of his thirteen-year-old being against being present for the ceremony. He wanted to crawl off somewhere, run away like a wounded animal and hide until everything was over or he was dead himself. But he wasn't seven years old anymore. He couldn't – no, it was no longer_ seemly _for him to hide under his father's desk anymore._

_He was expected to stay until the bitter end. Mycroft had made that clear to him that very morning. Mycroft, who was standing next to him now, holding an umbrella over both of them in a brotherly gesture. A gesture that was meant solely to present a picture of a touching, brotherly relationship and had no basis in any genuine, heart-felt affection._

_With his typical perfectionistic tendencies, Mycroft had decided that they would both wear identical black suits and ties, and Sherlock – too overcome by grief to put up any protest – had agreed. Now he hated himself for the fake solidarity being presented to the public through their appearance. It wasn't even that Mycroft hated or despised him. In fact, it probably would have been easier for Sherlock if his half-brother had fostered such negative feelings toward him... at least they would have been feelings of some kind. But the older boy had always treated Sherlock as if he left him completely cold. He ignored him on most days, conscientiously overlooking him as if he wasn't worth the attention._

_Despite all that, Sherlock had never hated his brother for his lack of emotion ... until this very moment, as Mycroft held onto him beneath his umbrella with an unobtrusive yet iron grip. If it weren't for the blasted umbrella, he could stand in the rain and no one would know whether the wet trails on his cheeks were tears or raindrops. But inconspicuous crying was impossible under the umbrella._

 

'A Holmes doesn't cry in public – so pull yourself together.'

 

_Mycroft had sent him out of the house that morning with those sound words of advice. A Holmes doesn't cry._

_But... was he even really a Holmes?_

 

_Sherlock glanced over at Mama Sylvia, who was standing off to the side, supported by her sister. She was a woman, and the widow of the deceased – she was allowed to cry. And although she'd been crying silently for a while now, she still looked very pretty. Not even tears could destroy her cool, conservative beauty._

_At least she appeared to truly be grieving – in contrast to Mycroft. But then, when Sherlock recalled how much time she'd wasted choosing her black dress, and that she'd had not only a hairdresser but a makeup artist to take care of her appearance that morning, he began to have doubts._

_As for him, he really was grieving his father. He still couldn't believe he'd lost him forever ... and he hadn't cared one whit that morning what he looked like. Mrs Hudson had fixed his tie for him in a quiet moment before Mycroft had seen him, because she'd felt the knot looked too untidy._

_Perhaps women were simply more vain. No matter whether their heart was broken or not. On the other hand, Sherlock wasn't entirely certain how much heart Mama Sylvia had. As a mother, she was neglectful but amicably interested whenever she remembered that she had two sons. Yes, two sons. For no matter what else one could reproach her for as a mother, she didn't treat her biological son one iota better or worse than she'd treated Sherlock for years... which was with a certain careless kindness._

 

Splat.

 

_Sherlock stared in horror at the clergyman, who had dropped a small shovelful of dirt onto the coffin._

 

_It wasn't until that moment that Sherlock understood with a finality that made him completely lose his composure that his father – who had never approached him with anything other than a smile – was never coming back to him, and the tears he'd taken such great pains to hold back the whole time so as not to antagonise Mycroft now ran freely down his cheeks._

_Mycroft's hand squeezed his upper arm briefly, and Sherlock sobbed._

_"If you are unable to control yourself, at least use a handkerchief, for God's sake," Mycroft hissed to him quietly, so quietly that no one else could understand him. "Don't tell me you didn't bring one!" Mycroft growled in an almost threatening manner. "If you want something done right..." With a rapid motion, he snapped out his own handkerchief and held it under Sherlock's nose._

_Sherlock took it and wiped his eyes and nose clumsily. No... Mycroft wasn't grieving. Why should he? Anyone who set foot in their home realised after no more than a few minutes that Sherrinford Holmes favoured his bastard over his legitimate son._

_More tears squeezed out from behind Sherlock's tightly shut eyelids. He felt guilty._

 

 

_Another shovelful of earth had been thrown onto the lid of the coffin. Sherlock would have liked nothing better than to close his ears so that he wouldn't have to listen to the sound any more. But he didn't dare. The desire to please Mycroft at any price was ingrained in him too deeply._

 

**_oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo_ **

 

_The wake._

_Whoever came up with such a barbaric custom should be drawn and quartered, in Sherlock's opinion. How could these people eat, drink, even – yes, even_ laugh _, when someone had just been buried?_

 

_Sherlock didn't understand the tradition, and so the behaviour of the mourners shocked and disturbed him. He wanted to grieve for his father ... he wanted peace and quiet ... he wanted to go home and snuggle up in his father's smoking jacket and hide it from Mama Sylvia before she donated it to charity out of some sense of practicality._

_Sherlock desperately struggled to hold back the new flood of tears, letting his gaze wander in blank disgust through the room._

_Everyone else seemed to be having a grand time. One or two cognac glasses were already standing on the tables, even though the tea things, pastries and sandwiches hadn't yet been cleared away._

_Mycroft was sitting at one of the round tables, speaking to an important-looking man in low tones. He was probably already trying to get his father's business partners on his side, while Mama Sylvia worked on the relatives._

 

_Mrs Hudson was nowhere to be seen, and anyway, Mycroft probably would have found it inappropriate for Sherlock to be seen in the company of a servant._

_It probably would have been appropriate for Sherlock to go over and join the relatives, like Mama Sylvia, but Sherlock knew that they didn't particularly like him, and he really wasn't in the mood to play the well-behaved offspring today. It was certainly better for everyone involved if he disappeared before he did or said anything (Uncle Randolph had gambling debts and was planning to sell his wife's jewellery ... but she'd already pawned the most expensive pieces months ago and replaced them with imitations, in order to buy her lover a car...) that would arouse Mycroft's displeasure. No one was paying attention to him anyway._

_It looked altogether as if he were on his own. But hadn't he always been? Hadn't everyone he'd ever liked left him? Mrs Hudson would be leaving soon too. Sherlock knew that Mycroft was considering letting her go._

_He was alone._

 

 _Without attracting attention, he left the room that had been rented for the occasion and slipped into the bar of the hotel they were in. Following a sudden inspiration, he took a bottle of cognac from the counter of the bar, hid it under his jacket, and passed through a plain door with the sign_ 'Staffonly' _, ending up in some kind of closet, all without being noticed by any of the waitstaff._

 

_There, amongst brooms, starched serviettes, cleaning supplies and stacks of chairs, Sherlock drank himself into the first deliberate high of his young life with the stolen bottle of cognac._

_It took some effort to get the first mouthful down, as he didn't like the taste of the alcohol one bit. He wondered how Great-Aunt Elvira could consume the stuff voluntarily, and to all appearances with great pleasure, at every possible opportunity._

_But then it got better. The high-proof liquid started to numb his tongue and his taste buds. The dark clouds that had cast a shadow over his soul since his father's automobile accident began to part, and finally withdrew completely. His heart felt lighter, and for the first time in days, he had the feeling he could take an unimpeded breath. He heard giggling, and realised to his amazement that he was the one who had made the sound._

 

_When half the bottle was gone, he felt wonderfully relaxed and light. His restless thoughts had also come to a standstill, and a rare peace filled his brain in place of the usual continual stream of activity. A certain indifference came over him, coupled with a strange feeling of superiority._

_At some point, he found himself lying half on the floor and half on a pile of cloths for cleaning the floor, with the nearly empty bottle in his hand. He could not have cared less. Just as his eyelids became heavy and he was looking forward to his first sleep in days, the door to his bolthole opened and a blurry figure entered his field of vision._

_"Sherlock! Here you are! I've been looking for you all this time," Mrs Hudson cried out in relief. "Your mother wants to leave. The car's already waiting."_

_"Grand," Sherlock slurred, noting with a peculiar sense of distance that it was difficult to articulate his thoughts. Amusing. He giggled again._

_"Oh good heavens," Mrs Hudson whispered in concern as she slowly became aware of the situation. "Sherlock... whatever have you done?"_

 

_Sherlock found himself unable to answer, although he did make an attempt._

_"Oh, my boy," Mrs Hudson said, full of sympathy, as she bent over, seized him by the shoulders, and pulled him up. When it became clear that he wouldn't be able to stand on his own two feet, she wrapped an arm around him and led him out through the hotel lobby to the front of the building._

_The car was there, its engine running. The seats in the rear were arranged facing each other, and Sylvia Holmes and Mycroft were already sitting – as on the journey there – next to each other, facing forward._

_Sherlock only vaguely registered being heaved onto the empty rear-facing seat of the black limousine. The shapes of his family swam before his eyes, and he blinked several times. Mama Sylvia said something to him, but he couldn't quite understand the meaning of her words. He was just about to ask when the car lurched into motion, causing something odd to happen in his stomach, and he vomited abruptly all over the floor._

 

_Once he'd stopped gagging, he raised his pale, wet face. The icy look directed at him from Mycroft's eyes effected a sudden sobriety and wiped the last few smears of alcohol out of his brain._

_"Sherlock..." His name emerged quietly, almost threateningly, from between Mycroft's thin lips._

_"Leave him," Mama Sylvia said without much feeling. Then she took a handkerchief out of her purse and handed it to Sherlock. "Wipe your mouth, and Mycroft... please open a window."_

_Sherlock took the handkerchief, humiliated._

_Still... that short period of freedom... of carefreeness ... of utter peace and forgetfulness... the brief escape from reality settled itself deeply and abidingly in Sherlock's consciousness._

_It would take four more years for him to discover that cocaine promised a much more complete escape than any alcoholic drink he drugged himself with to get away during that time._

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

A week after Irene spoke to Sherlock, his boredom had reached such deadly proportions that he finally decided on the lesser of two evils. He pronounced himself healthy and went back to work.

 

But despite his firm resolution not to get hung up on his own longings, he was even more restless, impatient, and twitchy than before. His restlessness didn't improve with working, as everything his clients did to him paled in comparison to John's visits. Everything they acted out with him – or on him – ended up being dull and boring compared to John's cruel kindness.

 

After he'd worked for a few days and made several clients _very_ happy, Irene summoned him to one of the smaller lounges.

 

In addition to the large reception areas, Irene's house had three more intimate lounges. Each one was individually furnished and decorated, as befitted the importance and wealth of each client. But all of the rooms had one thing in common: they contained a table, chairs, armchairs, and a couch ... but no bed.

 

Sherlock stood in the middle of the most luxurious – and most expensive – of the private lounges, afraid he was about to be subjected to yet another evening filled with insufferable boredom. Irene had only informed him of this appointment two hours earlier, telling him to shower, shave, and _dress to the nines_. In accordance with her instructions, Sherlock had taken his best, most expensive suit out of his closet, put it on, and gone down to the lounge to wait for his client.

 

The level of his anticipation and curiosity hovered somewhere between scant and non-existent. When a client reserved one of the private lounges, a quickie or a nice little spanking wouldn't suffice. It usually meant complicated explanations from the client, tiresome role-plays - such as tycoon and secretary, doctor and patient, pilot and flight attendant, teacher and student – and tiny cocks.

 

Irene had kept mum on the identity of his client, but Sherlock suspected - and his suspicions were generally spot on – that it must be a politician or other celebrity who valued discretion. Sherlock really couldn't have cared less. He didn't read tabloids and he didn't give a toss which actor had just got married or which singer had just received a Grammy. If his client really was a well-known public figure, the chances were good that Sherlock wouldn't recognise him. Given that, Irene's decision to send this particular guest his way made quite a lot of sense.

 

What Sherlock wasn't so indifferent to, however, was the fact that his mysterious client was running late. He glanced in annoyance at the clock on the mantel. He'd been waiting over twenty minutes. This kind of behaviour was inacceptable. They could have taken care of all the formalities by now and...

 

Right in the middle of that unpleasant thought, Sherlock heard the sound of the door opening. Still standing with his back to the entrance, he said in his most arrogant tone of voice, "You're late." Only then did he deign to turn slowly around to take a look at the delinquent client who'd made him wait so long.

 

When he realised who the person was standing in the doorway and wearing an expensive suit with a black polo neck top, he didn't believe his eyes.

 

 

John ... who was now closing the door behind him and then just standing there.

 

John... with his hands in his trouser pockets and a faintly amused yet severe and uncompromising look in his eyes that made Sherlock's heart beat faster.

 

"You're back." Sherlock said the words before he had a chance to think about them. But to his surprise, he found that he regretted neither the content nor the impulsiveness of his statement.

 

"You're back..." Sherlock repeated softly, his voice filled with disbelief and awe-filled amazement. "... for _me_?" The last two words of his question were barely audible, consisting only of a whispered breath.

 

John continued to stand there, motionless, worrying his lower lip.

 

"Looks that way," he finally said flatly.

 

Sherlock still couldn't believe it. He had to make sure he hadn't suddenly begun imagining things or hallucinating. His other senses had to confirm what his eyes and ears were signalling to him. He had to feel, to touch, to taste.

 

He walked toward John and although they weren't standing far apart, although Sherlock was in a hurry and his strides were long, he had the feeling – as in a nightmare – that he wasn't moving at all. When he finally reached John, his legs gave out and he fell to his knees. Spontaneously, he slung his arms around John's hips even as he buried his face in John's open jacket.

 

John allowed the impetuous contact, yet didn't reciprocate in any manner. But Sherlock didn't mind. As the tension and mental anguish of the past few days fell away, a boundless relief flowed through him. John's mere presence and existence were entirely sufficient for him at the moment. He greedily inhaled John's scent, absorbed it, and analysed it without even thinking.

 

As close as he was, Sherlock even imagined he could perceive the special smell of John's genitals. But that might just as well be a flight of fancy and wishful thinking.

 

In any case, there was definitely a slight trace of sweat and deodorant.

 

The dry scent of new wool.

 

And... gun oil.

 

Sherlock sighed comfortably.

 

 

"No one's ever come back to me," Sherlock murmured, both relieved and astounded. Only now did John reach out a hand to tentatively run it through Sherlock's dark curls.

 

"It's nice to hear I'm your first in more ways than one." John's voice sounded hoarse and Sherlock looked up. When their eyes met, Sherlock shivered in pleasurable anticipation. In John's deep blue eyes, he recognised the fire, the hunger, and the special kind of cruelty he'd missed so much.

 

"I made you wait," John continued, more gently, all the while combing his fingers through the other man's unruly hair.

 

"Yes. You did," Sherlock agreed before continuing with a deadly serious expression: "You can start apologising now."

 

Something in John's face changed ... it became smoother, more relaxed. "You really missed me," he realised, caressing Sherlock's cheek with his thumb. He sounded a little surprised.

 

Sherlock didn't stand up, but he pulled himself in tighter and began rubbing his groin against John's knee.

 

"Yes," he breathed, pressing himself even closer to John's trousers and the very promising hardness that had begun to appear between the mob boss's legs. "I did ... and this right here..." He pushed his own rapidly swelling cock more meaningfully against John's leg. "...isn't a gun in my pocket. I'm just happy to see you."

 

A quiet chuckle reached Sherlock's ear before John spoke. "Your conversational skills have improved immensely," John remarked and pushed Sherlock's head a little lower until it was right where he wanted it. As it turned out, Sherlock needed no further encouragement, and John enjoyed the sensation of those sinfully moist lips on his erection, even still covered by his trousers.

 

"Greedy as ever..." John said in a register that came suspiciously close to being a contented purr. "How about you?" he asked with a fiendish smile. "Should I milk you again to take the edge off?"

 

Sherlock jerked and stopped what he was doing. He raised his head slowly and looked up at John. His eyes were already glassy with arousal, his plump lips red and wet and very, very inviting.

 

He blinked once or twice and his gaze became sharp again.

 

"If you want to... milk me... then..." he began hesitantly, "then I won't stop you. But..." He bit his lower lip and looked so innocent and so wicked that another wave of desire rushed through John's lower regions.

 

"But this time... I'd rather have a real fuck with a real orgasm," Sherlock voiced his wish. Although he seemed slightly unsure, he raised one eyebrow in an arrogant manner, as if to say: _'Your move.'_

 

"Cheeky," John scolded him, but he didn't sound angry; more amused. Still, he grabbed Sherlock by the hair, pulled so hard it was painful, and forced his head back. Sherlock's delighted moan sounded just the way John had imagined it would.

 

"Still so horny it hurts?" John asked with a teasing undertone.

 

"For you? Always!" the answer came promptly – and breathlessly.

 

Once again, John had to focus on breathing slowly in and out in order to rein in the urge to throw the tosser to the floor and fuck him hard and fast. What was it about the man that drove John to the point he lost control of himself every time within just a few minutes? Nothing like this had ever happened to him before with any other man.

 

This young man was so extraordinary, so unusual, so incredibly breathtaking ... all in all a strange, contradictory combination. Filthy and sensual; intelligent but thoughtless; submissive yet challenging.

 

A strange combination indeed ... but a combination that John found both uncommonly fascinating and irresistible.

 

The image that John had of Sherlock up to now still had some blank spots, however. John wanted to change that this evening. Tonight, he wanted to learn something new about Sherlock, colour in some of those blank spots. He wanted to know how Sherlock would react, how he would sound, if he experienced more pleasure and arousal than his body and his brain were able to process.

 

John was gagging to hear Sherlock whine and whimper, and he knew just how to make that happen.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

**_To be continued..._ **

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

<http://lorelei-lee.tumblr.com/post/114745634814/teaser-for-the-next-chapter-of-deflowered>

 

I've put together my own pic-set for this chapter *blush*

 

  

 


	10. Mercy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translation by the most magnificent [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/profile)

**Chapter 10: Mercy**

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

John grasped several strands of Sherlock's hair and pulled. Not painfully this time in order to provoke his arousal, but gently, in order to get his attention.

 

"Get up," John ordered him in a steady voice, "and listen carefully to what I'm going to say."

 

Sherlock got off his knees and tilted his head to the side, which made him look – despite his size – like an excited child standing before a Christmas tree. His eyes, however, still harboured a strange, sober expression.

 

"Tonight, I'm inclined to ... accommodate your wishes." John was amused at the way Sherlock's eyes promptly brightened at his words. "Still... you're going to have to earn it. You don't get to have your way for free." John expected to see Sherlock frown or turn down the corners of his mouth, but quite the opposite was the case. Sherlock's lips parted slightly and his breaths came more rapidly.

 

Even though Sherlock clearly had a masochistic bent, John was still mildly surprised at his reaction, especially after everything he'd done to the young man. He'd expected to be confronted with objections, reckoned that Sherlock would try to bargain, but apparently none of that was going to happen. Sherlock submitted to his will and gave him his body with such a complete lack of reservation that it touched a spot deep inside John, a spot whose existence he hadn't felt in years. But now wasn't the time to get lost in introspection.

 

"Do you see that table?" John spoke in a low voice and pointed at the piece of furniture standing along with two chairs in front of the hearth.

 

"Yes," Sherlock replied with a questioning look.

 

John looked him right in the eyes and said, very slowly and clearly, "I am going to _have you_ on top of that table ... until you beg for mercy ... twice."

 

A faint blush crept over Sherlock's cheeks, but the quizzical, slightly confused look remained. "I don't beg," he declared.

 

John favoured him with a cheerful smile which succeeded in displaying most of his teeth. "Yes, I know," he replied, unimpressed. "You don't beg. You demand."

 

The blush in Sherlock's cheeks deepened. "I..." Sherlock began, but John didn't let him finish.

 

"You can come as hard and as often as you want," John explained in a friendly tone of voice that nevertheless allowed no room for argument. "But you will beg for mercy. Twice." He flicked his tongue across his upper lip and then continued: "And don't think you can fool me with some fake snivelling. I'll know if you're pretending," he threatened, noting Sherlock's shiver ... the sultry look from beneath half-lowered lids ... the plump, inviting lips ...

 

It was a sight John would probably never tire of seeing.

 

"Well," John said, clearing his throat. "Are you ready for your first lesson? Do you want me to teach you how to beg properly?" he asked in a pleasant and obliging tone of voice.

 

"Yes." Sherlock's agreement was barely more than a breath. "Show me how."

 

"Wise decision," John praised him. "But now we should really take care of getting you out of those clothes." He'd barely completed the sentence before he reached for Sherlock's jacket, pulled it down off his shoulders, and let it fall carelessly to the floor.

 

"Should I?" Sherlock asked hesitantly with a slight wrinkle of uncertainty on his forehead, even as his fingers brushed the front placket of his shirt.

 

John shook his head. "No. I want to reveal you myself ... layer by layer." He pushed Sherlock's fingers aside and opened the dark purple shirt one button at a time.

 

When he got to the last button, he pulled the shirt out of Sherlock's trousers with more force than absolutely necessary, letting it hang loose from the white shoulders. Sherlock gasped when John's hands touched his bared upper body for the first time. They slid slowly across the smooth, hairless chest. The barest hint of a touch to the rosy nipples was enough to cause the tender skin to pucker and harden into tiny buds. Sherlock gasped again.

 

"No reason to hold back. Just let yourself go..." John gave his permission in a dark, amused voice. He'd barely finished speaking before Sherlock took full advantage, pressing his body in one quick, flowing motion against John's, so close that not even a sheet of paper would have fit between the two men. Sherlock's heavy breaths – in which his increasing arousal was clearly audible - were music to John's ears.

 

Since his hands were still on Sherlock's chest and thus now trapped between their bodies, John continued stroking the small, hard nipples, earning the first moan from the slightly parted lips hovering near his ear.

 

Oh, how John would have loved to descend on those delicate, defenceless buds. He would bite them, knead them, pluck them and stretch them, lick them and abuse them with his fingernails until they were damp and swollen and incredibly sensitive ... but he deliberately left it at gentle, tender touches. Although Sherlock probably would have enjoyed such treatment immensely, John had promised himself he was going to make Sherlock lose his mind through pleasure alone, not through pain ... even if the two clearly went hand in hand with Sherlock.

 

But it appeared that even tenderness alone had an effect on him, as a very promising hardness was now pressing against John's hip. John decided the time had come for Sherlock to remove some more articles of clothing. He slid his hands down further on Sherlock's chest, down over his ribs and navel, past the tense abdominal muscles, until he reached the waistband of Sherlock's trousers. As he listened to the way Sherlock kept holding his breath, only to release it and gasp again, he undid the belt, button, and flies, and let the trousers slip off Sherlock's narrow hips onto the floor, where they landed in a pile of material around Sherlock's ankles.

 

"Take them all the way off," John instructed him, stepping back to give him more room to manoeuvre. "Shoes and socks too."

 

Sherlock did as he was told, and within a matter of moments he stood before John wearing only his shirt – which hung open on his shoulders – and silken boxers in the same purple colour as the shirt... with the exception of a wet patch which made for a darker shade in that particular spot.

 

John noted with a grin that Sherlock was barely aware of his own arousal; instead, his gaze remained fixated on John's crotch, where an obvious bulge ruined the line of his bespoke suit. Oh, yes... his tailor was rich.

 

"You're still wearing too much. Pants too... _please_ ," John added with an even bigger grin. "But leave the shirt on. I like it."

 

Sherlock complied silently and with sensual grace. He seemed to want to communicate solely through his eyes ... they spoke of heat, arousal, and willingness, and the sight of such fiery passion nearly took John's breath away.

 

"You're gorgeous." The words escaped John's lips in a soft voice.

 

A pained expression flashed across Sherlock's face. "Why do you keep saying that?" he blurted out in distress. "I know it's not true. There is absolutely no reason to humiliate me. At least not like that..."

 

John stared at him, speechless. It took a moment for him to gather his wits and be able to respond.

 

"If I say you're beautiful, it's nothing but the truth," he said firmly.

 

Sherlock shook his head with a sad smile. "I'm a freak... I've known that for a long time. You don't need to flatter me." He shrugged his shoulders in a fatalistic gesture. "I'm too pale, too thin... my clients never request me for my looks. They're only interested in my talents."

 

A crease appeared on John's forehead as he approached him. "You are a goddamn work of art. Your skin is like marble. Your body is strong and flexible – like a dancer's," John explained earnestly. He laid his hands on Sherlock's shoulders and felt the other man tremble beneath his touch. "Lips as red as blood, skin as white as snow, and hair as dark as ebony," John continued his assessment, now no longer quite so serious. Then he lifted his head to Sherlock's ear and lowered his voice to a sensuous murmur: "And with a cock that's as aesthetic as all get-out and an arse that's all but begging to be fucked." His right hand underscored his words by wandering over Sherlock's back until it landed on his buttocks.

 

Sherlock trembled again. But now it was from renewed arousal, not unwanted, unpleasant feelings.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

A short while later, John had Sherlock lying on his back on the table with John standing between the splayed legs hanging uselessly over the edge.

 

John had resumed giving copious attention to Sherlock's nipples, with the result that Sherlock was writhing and squirming with lust beneath him, arching his upper body toward him as much as possible. Sherlock was positioned on the table in such a way that he was able to grind his stiff, slippery erection unremittingly against John's still-clothed lower body. He did so with abandon, pleasing John with his shameless moans.

 

When John finally directed his eyes away from Sherlock's nipples and toward where their hips were pressed together, he realised that it wouldn't take much more before Sherlock soiled his expensive trousers with the liquid proof of his desire.

 

"If you ruin my trousers because you're so worked up, you're going to regret it," John warned him.

 

"Terribly sorry I can't control the release of my pre-ejaculate," Sherlock retorted in a clipped, sarcastic tone.

 

John clicked his tongue in disapproval. "Still able to form complete sentences, and far too feisty for my taste. I'm going to have to do something about that... but first... if you're not able to control that greedy body of yours, I'm going to have to do it for you. And as luck would have it, I've come prepared for just such an eventuality," John declared cheerfully.

 

Sherlock watched, curious, as John withdrew three small objects from the inner breast pocket of his jacket and laid them on the table beside Sherlock. A box, a small pump spray, and something that looked like a tube of gel.

 

With a fiendish grin that promised nothing good was about to happen, John set about satisfying Sherlock's curiosity.

 

"A special lubricant," he explained, indicating the tube. Then he picked up the spray. "A special disinfectant." Without any warning, he sprayed the cool liquid on the head of Sherlock's penis, eliciting a shocked groan.

 

"Oh, shut up," John scolded him good-naturedly and opened the little box.

 

He took out a ring, but it was too small and delicate to be used as a cock ring ... something Sherlock (at least going by his expression) had half expected. There was a sort of movable hook attached to the ring, ending in a ball – not unlike the sort of thing used for piercings.

 

"What is that?" Sherlock blurted out.

 

John's grin intensified. "This is a _sperm stopper_. Cute, isn't it?" He gave Sherlock a knowing look. "This should hold back the secretions from your bulbourethral gland, don't you think?"

 

Sherlock swallowed hard, but his penis seemed to be quite interested in the idea of having its right to free expression curtailed.

 

John pointed at the ring. "This goes under your glans. And this..." He moved the hook with the ball carefully up and down, ending by pointing directly at the ball. "... gets inserted into your urethra."

 

A whispered "Oh my God," and a throaty moan were Sherlock's only responses to the description.

 

"I'll take that as a yes," John remarked, satisfied, and smeared some of the gel on the head of Sherlock's penis. Sherlock gasped again, as the gel was cold too – at least in comparison to his heated skin. John looked up, noting that Sherlock's eyes were open wide, and – a clear signal of his apprehension – he was biting down on his lower lip.

 

"No reason to be afraid," John placated him immediately, using a calm voice. "I know what I'm doing. Trust me. It won't hurt." John waited, not moving until Sherlock gave his permission with a barely noticeable nod of his head. It wasn't difficult for John to slide the ring over the top of his penis and place it in the correct position. The effect of the small, innocuous piece of metal was immediate – the slight pressure caused the blood to pool in his glans, making it swell further. Sherlock's thighs began to quiver.

 

John wet his lips. Sherlock's body apparently didn't know what to do with the stimulus. It would do no good to flinch away; shivering and an increase in respiration would only ramp up the contradictory sensations being signalled in his brain. His muscles tensed as a result of his uncertainty, but just as John was about to intercede, a long sigh escaped Sherlock's throat, his eyes fell shut, and his muscles relaxed a bit, before he stretched and writhed in pleasure.

 

"Oh ... my ... God," he sighed, "... utterly fantastic..."

 

Without letting his relief be heard, John responded dryly, "I told you. But the best part is yet to come."

 

Slowly and very precisely, he dribbled more gel directly onto the tiny opening in Sherlock's penis. Sherlock lifted his head as far as he could, watching the procedure with wide eyes. His pupils dilated when John's fingers closed in on the movable hook. Gently and with great care, John bent the hook in the direction of his glans and positioned the ball directly over the urethral opening. The ball was still a hair's breadth away from its target, and John paused for a moment, during which Sherlock hardly dared to breathe.

 

And then one small nudge was enough and the ball slid easily into the narrow opening and disappeared into Sherlock's penis.

 

"Oh God," Sherlock groaned. "OH MY GOD!" He let his head fall back with a dull thump onto the table. His chest rose and fell in rapid sequence and his erection twitched, but no more fluid escaped.

 

"Incredible," Sherlock gasped.

 

"As good as all that?" John teased.

 

"Better," Sherlock answered throatily. His low, dark voice virtually vibrated with arousal.

 

"Perfect," John answered with a devilish smile. "Ready to beg?"

 

"What?" Sherlock asked dull-wittedly. "Why?"

 

Without saying a word, John flicked his index finger against Sherlock's sensitised, swollen glans, listening in delight to Sherlock's ecstatic scream.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

John flicked his fingers against the head of Sherlock's stiff penis several more times. Each time elicited the same reaction from Sherlock – a hoarse cry, half a sob, and then, when the first shock had receded, leaving only a weak pulsing sensation, a hungry sigh. John was in no hurry. He took his time, took breaks at irregular intervals, just enough to give his playmate time to recover ... and to avoid his nerve endings becoming unresponsive due to overstimulation.

 

After Sherlock had withstood – no, enjoyed – the treatment eight or nine times, John decided to change tactics. When he sensed that Sherlock was preparing for another round, John reached out his hand – but instead of flicking him again, he moved the hook of the sperm stopper and pulled the ball out of his urethra ... only to slide it agonisingly slowly right back into the slightly widened slit.

 

If the groan that filled the room was any indication, Sherlock was having the time of his life. His hands scrabbled around on the table, trying to find something to hold on to, and finally clawed themselves around the edge of the tabletop over his head.

 

"Poor boy," John mocked him, gloating over the beads of perspiration on Sherlock's forehead. "Still not enough? Are you still not ready to beg for mercy?"

 

When Sherlock did nothing more than bite his lips and shake his head slightly, John favoured him with his friendliest smile and placed one hand on his unbelievably hot erection. With gentle pressure, he pushed down on it until it was lying flat on Sherlock's stomach, where the muscles were twitching intermittently. Then he brushed the flat of his hand lightly down the length of Sherlock's hard cock, while with his other hand, in a gesture that was almost ironic in its tenderness, he stroked the smooth-shaven testicles that were nestled, full and tight, against his body.

 

A sob of pain and ecstasy escaped Sherlock's lips. "No... please... stop! John!" he cried, almost in despair. "If you don't stop, then ... then I'll..." He bit down hard on his lips even as a reflexive flutter pulsed through his genitals.

 

John could feel very well what was about to happen, but he didn't stop his ministrations for a single second, didn't give Sherlock any chance to catch his breath.

 

"You know what you need to do before you're allowed to come."

 

An inarticulate rattle followed by a hoarse "John!" was all Sherlock was able to produce.

 

"Uh-huh, very nice," John replied, unimpressed. "But... what's the magic word?"

 

Sherlock lifted his head then let it fall back onto the table with a loud thud. The pain in the back of his skull brought him halfway back to his senses for a few vital seconds.

 

"PLEASE!" he begged hoarsely. His entire body was shaking with the effort, while he desperately tried to suppress his imminent and – as long as John continued to torture him in such a marvellous manner - inevitable orgasm.

 

"And what _exactly_ are you asking me for?" John asked in a tone of affected goodwill.

 

"God, John!" Sherlock struggled for words, fought for his sanity, all the while trying to swallow his pride. "You _know_ what... please ... stop ... please... John..." He bit down on his lips again. "Oh God... John ... have pity... MERCY, John ... PLEASE!"

 

"Good boy," John praised him, and promptly removed his hands from Sherlock's body.

 

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and sobbed in relief. The urge to disobey and explode instantly died away. But an echo of that burning desire was still palpable, still present. He took grateful note of it and stretched himself languorously.

 

"That's once we can tick off," John informed Sherlock with an evil grin. "But that still leaves one open." He allowed his gaze to slide down the sweaty body, which appeared both limp and tense at the same time. "I'd better take this off..." John said and touched the delicate metal hook with the ball that was still buried in the narrow, swollen slit.

 

"No," Sherlock objected in a weak voice, shaking his head more vehemently.

 

John looked at him in surprise, but he withdrew his hands and chuckled to himself. "You really are an insatiable little slut."

 

"And you like me just the way I am," Sherlock whispered back with a strange, earnest look in his eyes.

 

Then he gave John a wicked look from his half-lidded eyes and moistened his lips – dry from all the moaning and screaming – with the tip of his tongue. As a provocation it couldn't have been any clearer. Still, it seemed to John that it wasn't the whole truth. As if Sherlock were trying to hide something from him with this demonstration. But what? Could it be _hope_?

 

Whatever it was, Sherlock's words echoed in John's breast, awakening feelings in him that he was certain he wouldn't like one bit, once examined in the light of day and with a clear head.

 

"Put your feet flat on the table," John ordered him a little more forcefully than he'd originally intended, but it didn't matter: Sherlock obeyed without hesitation, sighing softly. He was lying so close to the edge of the table that he had to spread his legs wide in order to get a proper foothold at all. This resulted in his most intimate area being put on flagrant and unprotected display before John's ravenous gaze. His fingers found their way to Sherlock's plump testicles, running over them playfully on the way down to the soft skin of his perineum and further to the opening that was _still_ sealed by its perfectly functioning muscle. Whenever he stroked gently over it with his fingers, Sherlock's breath hitched for a moment, his steady, soft moans getting caught in his throat and emerging from his lips as little more than a choked sob. Sherlock's arousal – which had receded briefly - re-ignited rapidly, affecting his reactions and abilities to a degree that he had never experienced before.

 

"That still looks pretty virginal," John mused, tapping the tip of his finger against the delicate, puckered skin surrounding the tight ring of muscle. "You haven't been playing with yourself?"

 

"No... I..." Sherlock stammered with difficulty. His tongue was no longer fully under his control, unable to form the simplest words. "That belongs to..." He paused and gasped for breath along with the words. That infernal finger was making it almost impossible for him to think. John, on the other hand, was enjoying seeing Sherlock struggle and didn't even consider for a moment making things any easier for him.

 

With a concerted effort, Sherlock was finally able to put together a coherent sentence and force it out through his vocal cords. "I haven't touched myself there... _no one's_ touched me there since..."

 

"Then you must need it pretty badly," John remarked in a mocking tone in order to conceal how much that statement affected him. He was proud of Sherlock, yet at the same time he didn't know why he should be. After all, the little slut hadn't done anything more than exercise a modicum of self-restraint. Why should he be proud of the fact that this oversexed piece of tail hadn't spent every waking moment fingering himself? There was no reason – of course not. And yet he was.

 

As a kind of avoidance behaviour, John smeared a generous portion of lubricant onto his fingers and, after several teasing touches, inserted one into Sherlock's eager, waiting body. A long, drawn-out sigh accompanied the act, and Sherlock jerked his hips in an obvious attempt to speed up the rate at which John's finger entered his body, and to get it to go deeper.

 

Although Sherlock was quite tight at the beginning, it didn't take long for his body to remember how to relax and give John more room to work. Soon John had three fingers inside Sherlock's writhing body, twisting and spreading them ... all the while doing his best to avoid stimulating his prostate. He did brush it once, inadvertently, causing Sherlock to react like a wild mustang, and John to fear he would tip right over along with the table.

 

"Settle down..." John murmured. "If you want to continue, you're going to have to stop squirming around like that."

 

Sherlock's fingers clutched the edge of the table so hard that his knuckles stood out, white, but he managed a weak nod and tried to hold still.

 

"Good boy," John praised him, his hungry gaze falling on Sherlock's stretched opening, gleaming with lubricant, as his fingers pumped in and out in a hypnotic rhythm.

 

Everything was calculated to make Sherlock feel that he was about to go mad with lust and desire. And to all appearances, John wasn't far from reaching that goal – which was a good thing, since he was also just about at his limit. His stiff member pressed against the inside of his trousers, and every movement, every time he rubbed against the material, stimulated him more. His underwear felt damp and slick, and John was certain it was more than just sweat. He was probably leaking as much as Sherlock had at the beginning.

 

John opened his flies with one hand, shoved his pants aside, and wrapped his fingers around his fully erect cock. He dropped his head back for a brief moment and sighed in relief.

 

Then he removed his fingers from Sherlock's body, which resulted in the other man whining and voicing some unintelligible complaints. He then stared greedily at the dilated, twitching hole.

 

Within a matter of seconds, John had rolled a condom down over his erection and pushed it at a cruelly slow pace into Sherlock's marvellously compliant body until he felt the silken warmth surrounding every inch of his cock. Then he held absolutely still. It was at least as agonising for him as it was for Sherlock ... but when he saw Sherlock break out in a sweat as he struggled to remain still, it made his own discomfort more bearable.

 

"Are you going to stay like that all night?" Sherlock hissed breathlessly. "Do something!"

 

John would have liked to laugh. The tosser was priceless. What fire! What a temper! But if he let himself go now, all the effort he'd put in so far would be for nothing. Sherlock still needed to _beg for mercy_ once more. And so John got a handle on his facial muscles, pursed his lips, acted as if he were giving Sherlock's request – no, his command – serious consideration, and then withdrew his cock entirely.

 

"No," he said simply.

 

"What?!" There was a hint of panic in Sherlock's horrified cry. "Oh no... don't you dare ... don't even think about letting me hang like this!"

 

John admired Sherlock's fighting spirit, while at the same time shaking his head at the foolishness in talking to him like _that_. How could Sherlock be so perfect overall, given all of his contradictions?

 

"Leave you hanging?" John repeated, not letting on where his thoughts were going. "What's that supposed to mean? _So_... filled with lust ... hot to trot ... seized with a single desire, to feel something in you ... something big and hard ... and then to be fucked ... no holds barred? Do you want a hard cock to make you forget everything until you can't do anything more than lie there – like you are now – whimpering with desire ... begging for release ... so horny it hurts ... your legs spread and your dick dripping ... if it weren't for the sperm stopper..."

 

A shudder ran through Sherlock's body at the sound of those obscene words, and a shameless moan parted the sinful lips.

 

"Yes," he confirmed hoarsely. "When are you finally going to put it back in?"

 

This time John couldn't help chuckling a bit. "We're rather rude today, aren't we?" he said, but he complied with Sherlock's wish and shoved his erection into the pliant opening again.

 

A faint sob filled the room, but John held still once more. Contrary to earlier, however, he stopped as soon as the head of his penis penetrated Sherlock's grasping body. The muscles of the narrow channel twitched helplessly in an attempt to take in more of the hardness it craved.

 

"It's incredible how sensitive you are," John whispered, almost awe-struck. "I'll bet, with the right training, you could come without anyone even touching your cock." Sherlock let out a lust-filled moan, and John grinned. "Yeah, I thought you'd like that..."

 

"Hmmm yessss..." Sherlock sighed, bent his head back and stretched his entire body in a luxuriant, sensuous move.

 

John chuckled softly. "All right... but not today..." he said. He pushed in a little deeper, enjoying the silky heat around his erection along with Sherlock's erotic movements. He pressed deeper into the willing body, but even though he went as slowly as he could, he found his cock bottoming out in Sherlock's arse all too soon. He bent forward and pressed his belt buckle deliberately against Sherlock's swollen, hard cock, which was already dark red with the backed-up blood.

 

"Oh God!" Sherlock couldn't help screaming out with lust when he felt the pressure directly on the part of the body where he most desperately longed for it. Burning with desire, he tried to grind against John, driven by the desperate yearning for _more_.

 

"Not like that, you greedy little slut," John scolded him, straightening up again.

 

A heart-breaking sob sounded. Sherlock's erection twitched, and his entire abdomen trembled and spasmed. John could hardly believe his eyes when he saw a milky fluid oozing out of the tiny slit in Sherlock's glans, despite the fact that the sperm stopper was still lodged in his urethra, which should actually make such a thing impossible. The fluid – was it precome or was it ejaculate already? - dripped thickly onto Sherlock's quivering abdomen. Without giving it much thought, John grabbed Sherlock's testicles and pulled down hard.

 

This time, Sherlock's scream was a combination of pain and arousal, and another stream of the milky fluid flowed out of the glistening tip of his penis.

 

"Are you coming?" John asked sternly.

 

"No... yes... I don't know... it's ... too much ... I ... need ... I need you," Sherlock stammered incoherently.

 

"You. Will. Not. Come. Have you understood?" John shouted harshly.

 

"I can't... no more... please," Sherlock began to beg, apparently too lost in arousal to form a complete sentence.

 

"You know exactly what I want to hear from you," John growled, yanked his cock out of the warm body completely, waited a few seconds, and then mercilessly slammed it deep into the fluttering hole, where he paused motionless for a moment before withdrawing again completely.

 

The hard, fast rhythm and the continuous back and forth between being completely filled and completely empty drove Sherlock to his limits. His eyes filled with tears, and his sobs took on a hysterical edge. He knew that John was torn between the desire to see him fail and the hope that he would bow to his will ... his behaviour didn't allow any other conclusion.

 

As for Sherlock, he didn't know what he should do anymore.

 

A steady stream of warm fluid pulsed through his urethra, squeezed past the ball and dripped onto his stomach. The pressure in his genitals was unbearable, and also wonderful, for exactly that reason. A rush similar to what he'd experienced from using cocaine – but never in connection with a sexual act – fogged his mind and made it impossible for him to formulate a single clear – or even halfway reasonable – thought. He lost more and more control over his limbs. His legs gave out, and his feet threatened to slide off the table.

 

But then he felt – as if from miles away – powerful hands on his ankles, and he understood that John was pulling his legs over his own shoulders. As if through a fog, he saw John grimace, and the realisation that the gunshot wound in his left shoulder was still bothering him pierced the fog in Sherlock's brain like a bolt of lightning.

 

That small lightning bolt was enough to jolt him into making a decision.

 

"Stop!" Sherlock had the impression he was shouting, but in reality it was barely more than a whisper. Still, John heard him and paused in his motion.

 

"What?" John asked, trying to cover his incipient concern with severity. He'd actually intended to fuck Sherlock into the floor – even if he'd pay later for it with pains in his shoulder – to make it clear to him once and for all that he wasn't a man to be fooled with, that he was used to getting his way. But Sherlock's _'stop'_ had returned him halfway to his senses, and he was prepared to listen.

 

Sherlock gasped for breath. Although he'd already made his decision, it was difficult ... unspeakably difficult. But John was holding his legs for him, even though it must be painful, and Sherlock didn't know what else to offer in return for the gesture other than ... his pride.

 

"Let me... I... please let me..." he stammered, gulping in air. Why was speaking such an effort all of a sudden, one he hardly felt up to? "Let me come... let me come... please..." He bit down on his lips as his neglected cock twitched and pulsed one more time. "Please fuck me. Fuck me properly ... let me ... I have to touch myself... it's too much ... much too much ... I can't anymore... I beg you..." With a concerted effort, he directed his gaze directly at John, tears of humiliation gathering in the corners of his eyes. "Mercy, John..." he whispered softly. "Have mercy on me and fuck me so hard I won't be able to sit for a week."

 

A tear rolled down Sherlock's cheek, and John wiped it away with his thumb in a tender gesture that neither of them foresaw.

 

"That's what I was going to do all along," he said with a gentleness that surprised even him.

 

For the second time that evening, his hand caressed Sherlock's cheek, down his neck, over his chest, his taut abdomen, until he reached the sensitive, swollen shaft, which he then gripped loosely with his fingers. There was a tentative, hopeful whimper of relief, and no sooner had it faded away than John began to make good on his promise, plunging into the more than willing body like a man possessed.

 

Sherlock flexed his back and arched into the thrusts, opening himself up to them in a way that John wouldn't have thought possible. The oversensitive muscles sucked on his hard flesh, grasped it, all but milked it, all while submitting to the hard, deep strokes with shameless abandon.

 

It came as no surprise to John, following all the arousing and painful stimuli, drawn-out foreplay, and the continual ramping up of his pleasure, that Sherlock was rapidly approaching the longed-for conclusion. In order not to injure him inadvertently, John finally bent the hook of the sperm stopper back, freeing Sherlock's penis of the ball that had caused him so much pleasure and pain. Once that was taken care of, John could finally let his own lust run rampant, and started rubbing hard and fast – in time with his own thrusts – up and down Sherlock's stiff cock.

 

Sherlock's scream hurt his ears, but it was a spectacular sight: his bright red cheeks, his glistening eyes, his wild hair, the perspiration on his chest - rising and falling in a rapid rhythm; his back - arched almost like the string of a bow - and the expression of utter bliss with a trace of disbelief and a dash of timid reverence on his face.

 

His entire body was trembling, tightening up ever more, and his heels dug painfully into John's back. His erection in John's hands jerked hard, and the first splatter of semen landed on Sherlock's collarbone. A relieved, lust-filled sob escaped the full, red lips and the next emission sprayed onto his chest and abdomen. Sherlock's inside muscles clamped down harder around John's cock – gifting John with both heaven and hell through their spasmodic contractions – while his seemingly neverending orgasm went on and on. John gave himself over to the moment and intensified his thrusts. Shudder after shudder shook the body lying beneath him.

 

Although John had wanted to draw it out a little longer, although he'd planned on fucking the oversensitized body until Sherlock's eyes filled with tears again, the need to empty himself into this soft, compliant, insatiable young man had become unbearable.

 

With one final, deep stroke, he buried himself deep in the satiny heat, the waves of his lust breaking over him, smothering him, blinding him, and leaving him breathless, exhausted, drained, and incredibly satisfied.

 

While he was still gasping for breath, he looked down at Sherlock, lying underneath him with his eyes closed and his limbs limp. Only the motions of his chest as he breathed showed that he was still amongst the living.

 

A tender smile passed over John's lips, and he lifted the feeble, leaden legs off his shoulders and lowered them carefully. He pulled out of Sherlock and took the used condom off his softening member with one hand, tucked himself away and pulled up the zip of his trousers. He used the other hand to keep Sherlock steady on the table, as a precaution. Once he was more or less presentable again, he slid his hands under Sherlock's shoulders and pulled him into a sitting position, where he then removed the wrinkled, damp shirt from his sweaty shoulders.

 

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

"What... what are you doing?" Sherlock asked, heavy-tongued, in testimony to his fatigue.

 

"I'm just trying to make you more comfortable," John replied gently, placing one arm around Sherlock's shoulders and the other under his knees and lifting him from the table to carry him over to the small, cosy couch, where he set him down carefully on the soft cushions.

 

Sherlock's fingers promptly shot out toward John's hand, caught him by the sleeve of his jacket, and plucked at the expensive material in a bashful gesture reminiscent of a small child.

 

"Stay," he whispered softly, and when John hesitated, he added: "Just a little while... _please_?" The last word was barely more than a wisp of air, and came across more like an afterthought than an actual request. But John knew how difficult it was for Sherlock to ask rather than to simply demand, and he decided to fulfil the request. After all that Sherlock had done for him that evening, a little reward couldn't hurt.

 

If John had suspected the chain reaction he would set in motion by staying, he probably would have decided differently.

 

As it was, he sat down unsuspectingly on one corner of the couch, and Sherlock immediately glommed onto him as if his life depended on it. With one hand, he held fast to the lapel of John's jacket, while his head sank onto John's shoulder. He pulled in his legs and wriggled around on the cushions until he was lying half on John and half on the couch. John was amused to be used as an oversized pillow and began absently to comb through Sherlock's disorderly, sweaty curls.

 

"Will you come back?" Sherlock asked after a short while spent in harmonious silence.

 

John could tell that Sherlock was trying hard not to sound _too_ needy or lost, even if he wasn't entirely successful.

 

"I already promised I'd teach you to come without using your hands, didn't I?" John replied with a deliberately dirty grin. "So I guess I'm going to have to come back."

 

"Good," Sherlock said with a short sigh, lifting his head from John's shoulder to look at him. "Then I have something to look forward to," he whispered, and pressed his lips to John's mouth in a brief and unexpectedly sweet kiss.

 

John was too shocked to even begin to react to that. It wasn't until Sherlock cuddled up against him again like a kitten – with a sated, almost happy smile and a tired yawn, nestling against the arm that still rested on his shoulders – that John's brain came back online and began to understand what had just happened.

 

That evening, John really had learned something new about Sherlock. The man could not only suck cock like the devil himself, was not only an incredible fuck and made the most marvellous sounds while doing so ... no, he was also an unusually talented thief.

 

For with that single innocent kiss from those normally so sinful lips, Sherlock had succeeded in stealing John's heart.

 

And right at that moment, John realised that he was going to return to Sherlock again ... and again, and again...

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_**To be continued...** _

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Okay, so this is as far as my original English story went. It's also where the fun really begins.

 

The drama really only gets going from this point. You guys thought all the secrets were out? Far from it ... the mayoral election is going to play a really big role, I can tell you that much.

 

There you have an example for a sperm stopper:

<http://www.meo.de/products/6774/1.6774.jpg>

 

And I put together another pic set:

 

 

 

 

For the picture of the kiss I used a photomanip… you can find the original here:

<http://www.fanpop.com/clubs/sherlock-and-john/images/31330497/title/kiss-fanart>

I only tempered with the colour.

 


	11. Arrangement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation by the wonderful [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/profile)

**Chapter 11: Arrangement**

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

"Sherlock..."

 

Sherlock started awake. Had he really fallen asleep on top of John? And what had woken him up? He blinked around the room, disoriented.

 

"Sher-lock..."

 

"John?" Since when did John have such a singsong lilt to his voice? But then Sherlock realised it wasn't John's voice that had awoken him after all; it was Irene, who was standing in the doorway grinning broadly. "Irene? Where's John?"

 

"Gone," Irene answered shortly, registering a split second too late how Sherlock's eyes widened in horror, and hurried to assuage his fears. "No reason to panic. I bring good tidings! Before he left, he came to see me and set up regular appointments with you," Irene crowed. "Starting immediately, you can look forward to seeing your Doc every Wednesday and Sunday from five to seven PM." Her eyes slid over Sherlock, who was still lying nude on the couch, displaying all the signs of sexual gratification. "Mmhhh... yummy," she said with a broad wink.

 

Sherlock sank back into the cushions in relief, not even making the effort to cover himself. He closed his eyes for a moment and sighed softly. Then he glanced over at Irene with a small, happy smile.

 

"So he wants me to be exclusive?"

 

The glee faded slightly from Irene's face.

 

"He didn't mention it specifically..." When she saw the corners of Sherlock's mouth turn down and his brow cloud over, she went on hastily: "I'm sure he just forgot and must have assumed..."

 

"No." Sherlock shook his head dolefully. "John isn't the kind of man who would forget something like that," he said dully. He sat up and covered his lap with a cushion. The golden feeling of elation in his chest sank lower, lost its gleam and warmth and finally congealed as a lump of ice in his stomach.

 

It cut Irene to the quick to be the unintentional witness to his disappointment.

 

"You know, his offer was really quite generous..." she began somewhat uncertainly. "You don't need to work for me the rest of the time, if you don't want to anymore. He..."

 

"No!" Sherlock shouted, a cold, hard glitter in his eyes. "He doesn't want me to be exclusive – then he's not going to get me exclusively."

 

Irene sighed and gave up any additional attempt at persuasion. Nothing was thicker than Sherlock's head.

 

"Fine... how about tomorrow afternoon?" she suggested. "Lord Windermere is interested in something more... you and Jason – is that all right with you?"

 

Sherlock's lips pressed together into a thin line, but he nodded.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Two days later it was finally Wednesday.

 

Although he tried not to let it show, Sherlock was looking forward feverishly to his upcoming appointment with John. Ever since noon, he kept checking every available clock, accusing them of running behind or being broken and having stopped altogether.

 

He also kept peeking into his closet, where, safely packed away in a plastic bag, there was a new suit that Irene had procured for him. The jacket and trousers were anthracite-coloured. Along with them went a dark green shirt and a lighter, grey-green patterned tie (which Sherlock was definitely not going to wear).

 

Sherlock could calculate almost down to the penny how much that suit must have cost Irene. The conclusions that could be drawn from that sum back to the arrangement John and Irene must have come to were extremely complimentary for Sherlock.

 

The nagging thought that he was important and at some level valuable to John, but not quite valuable enough to provoke a desire for exclusivity, was disturbing and unpleasant – and the flattering feeling that he got from the suit and everything that went with it wasn't quite enough to make that thought go away.

 

Luckily, though, it was possible to banish it almost completely from his consciousness. Because he really didn't want to think about it.

 

The feeling of being a disappointment to everyone, of not being important enough, not being good enough, was one he was well acquainted with. In light of that, it was much more pleasant to concentrate on the fact that someone was willing to spend a small fortune on the pleasure of his company. That was an absolute novelty for Sherlock, and he warmed himself with that thought as before a hearthfire on a cold winter's night. He'd decided for himself that he'd take what he could and not long for more – that hadn't done him any good in the past, and had generally led to him being left with nothing at all.

 

Finally, it was time to shower, cleanse himself, get dressed, and do his hair. When Sherlock was done with everything and ready to receive his guest, he went to room seven, which had been reserved by Irene for all of their meetings. Once there, he discovered that he still had half an hour left to wait.

 

Room seven was one of the best rooms in the house, one that was exclusively reserved for very special clients. It was furnished in a pseudo-Victorian style, which was one of Irene's weaknesses. It had everything... a big canopy bed, a couch, two armchairs, the usual cabinet with all kinds of utensils, a fireplace, and even its own bathroom with an oversized bathtub.

 

But Sherlock didn't have any appreciation for the grandeur surrounding him. He was entirely preoccupied with resisting the temptation to pluck nervously at his clothes and hair. In order to distract himself, therefore, he went to stand at the window – hidden behind the curtain – so that he could keep an eye on the street in order to await John's arrival. He was fully aware of the fact that his behaviour bordered on being childish, but he couldn't help it.

 

John had struck a chord in him, making it ring out like no one else before him. Others had tinkered with that chord before ... beginners, experts, dilettantes, wannabe doms, brutal sadists, tender lovers. But none of them had succeeded in playing it with such virtuosity, bringing all the shades of pitch into harmony – or even creating any kind of melody at all. Never before had Sherlock felt so abused and at the same time so well taken care of. So humiliated and so worshipped. Something had been missing with all the others. Not with John. He gave him everything. Everything he needed. It was a heady feeling. When John was with him, he could forget himself – and that was the best part.

 

As he looked out the window, he stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets. Otherwise, he might have crumpled Irene's curtains out of impatience, which was certain to displease her, and which John was also certain to notice ... and then that indulgent, mocking, knowing smile would appear on his face ... Sherlock swallowed and closed his eyes for a moment, only to fling them open again at the sound of a car braking outside.

 

An understated black limousine stopped directly in front of the main entrance to the house. The back door opened, and John got out.

 

 

Sherlock rested his forehead against the window in relief. His heart was hammering like that of a joyful, excited bride at the sight of her groom, and he had to bite his lips so as not to break out in a completely idiotic grin.

 

"Keep it together, Sherlock," he reminded himself quietly. "He's not coming to you because you're some kind of mewling, devoted lap dog, but rather..." He broke off somewhat helplessly. It was still a mystery to him what exactly John saw in him. "Keep it together," he murmured again, squared his shoulders and stepped back from the window.

 

It took quite a bit of effort, but he managed to withstand the temptation to smooth his hand one last time over his hair, or to fiddle with his cufflinks. With a deadpan expression, a proud, upright stance, his hands linked behind his back, he stood in the middle of the room waiting for John.

 

When John finally entered the room – his hands buried deep in the pockets of the long woollen coat hanging open off his shoulders, wearing his usual black polo neck top along with a blue-grey suit – Sherlock's mind was swept clean and he had no idea what to say. Too many unfiltered words clamoured for space on his tongue, but he swallowed all of them down. In the end, it was John's left eyebrow rising slowly – expectant, challenging, cynical – that released the paralysis that had settled over his vocal cords.

 

"Hello," Sherlock said, immediately wanting to kick himself in the arse. _'Hello...' How embarrassing! As if he couldn't count to three!_ Inside, he was writhing on the floor in mortification, but on the outside, he maintained his serene facade.

 

The corners of John's mouth twitched with reluctant amusement at the simple greeting. Without responding, he came further into the room, took out a thin, rolled-up file folder from the inner pocket of his coat, walked past Sherlock without so much as glancing at him, and tossed the folder onto the bed. Then he took off his coat, let it fall carelessly onto one of the armchairs, and remained standing next to the chair. Only then did he turn his full attention to Sherlock, who had an ominous sense of foreboding.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock tried to get a look at the top document inside the folder, just under the clear cover. Once he did, he broke out in a cold sweat. He knew those forms all too well... police reports. Although he was too far away to actually read the words, he didn't doubt for one second that his name was written in those fields meant for the offender.

 

Someone had been making inquiries about him.

 

His eyes returned to John, who was standing there with his arms crossed over his chest, watching him with an inscrutable expression.

 

"Sherlock Sigerson..." John finally drawled. "I'm afraid we're going to have to have a little talk."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_A man with a dark blue, three-piece suit, a black umbrella, and a serious expression entered a police station somewhere in London just as the pale autumn sun rose over the rooftops of the city._

_The man looked around the station briefly until he caught sight of a uniformed sergeant with grey temples that appeared strangely out of place and didn't match his youthful face. His nametag read 'G. Lestrade', and he was deep in conversation with a constable at the moment, yet he seemed to be aware of the eyes fixed on him. He looked up, and the besuited man approached him, his hand outstretched._

_"Mycroft Holmes," the man in the suit introduced himself as Lestrade shook the proffered hand. "We spoke on the phone."_

_"Sergeant Gregory Lestrade," he introduced himself in turn. "Yes... I found your card with your number in your brother's wallet, and since I couldn't reach anyone at his flat..."_

_"Sherlock... yes..." Mycroft's impassive expression turned into a pained grimace for a fraction of a second. "He's still here?"_

_"In the drunk tank," Lestrade replied neutrally. "Maybe you'd like to talk to him...?"_

_"Is he coherent?"_

_"By now.. yeah, I think so," Lestrade answered, still in a professional tone of voice. "He's going to have a hell of a headache though."_

 

_Mycroft shrugged his shoulders, as if to say 'so what'. "What's he being charged with?"_

_"Disturbing the peace and ... well, he was pretty drunk." Lestrade listed the charges, slightly embarrassed. "He insulted and attacked a couple of the officers who tried to tell him to quiet down and go home. So, assault and insulting an officer of the law. Of course, there's also the question of how the judge will assess his mental state and capacity for criminal responsibility."_

_One of Mycroft's eyebrows rose in disbelief. "No drugs?" he asked coolly._

_Lestrade returned the look calmly. "Not this time." Mycroft's gaze became more intense. "This may be the first time I've had the pleasure, but your brother's no stranger to the Met. We were thorough, sir," Lestrade affirmed._

_"Well and good," Mycroft said, taking a closer look at this unusually businesslike and professional sergeant._

_Late twenties – the same age as Mycroft himself – tanned, wedding ring without any signs of wear ... Newlywed and apparently just back from his honeymoon ... faint dark circles under his eyes ... taken on debt to finance his house..._

 

_Mycroft took deep, even breaths. This all fit nicely into his plans. The sergeant shouldn't be opposed to a little financial incentive. He looked around. No one was paying any attention to him or Lestrade. All of the other officers were busy elsewhere, or overtired from the long night shift and thus inattentive._

_"Your discretion in handling this matter is commendable," Mycroft went on in a low voice, reaching into the inner breast pocket of his jacket. "I wouldn't be opposed to rewarding you for your further discretion."_

_"I'm afraid I don't understand..." Lestrade replied, blinking in confusion._

_Mycroft sighed. He was going to have to be more explicit._

_"There's no need for this entire tiresome affair to end up on file somewhere. And your young wife will surely be overjoyed to receive a new pair of earrings." He paused a moment. "Or perhaps a fur stole."_

_"You want me to make my report on your brother's arrest disappear?" Lestrade blurted out in disbelief – luckily in a stage whisper. "That... no... really, no. Mr Holmes ... if I were in your shoes, I'd seriously reconsider whether you really want to go so far as to bribe an officer of Her Majesty. I'd be forced to bring charges."_

 

_"Fine... then a donation to the police fund for widows and orphans, or a generous contribution to Scotland Yard's next charity ball?" Mycroft restated his offer, slightly peeved._

_Lestrade assumed a stiff posture. "Sir..." he said softly, and Mycroft noted with astonishment that the polite address contained a warning. "You came to talk to your brother. Allow me to show you the way." It wasn't a question; it was an order, which Mycroft followed with a crease in his forehead._

_As they walked beside each other down the narrow corridor leading to the cells, Mycroft remarked offhandedly, "You may not be aware that I am not entirely without influence. It could become rather unpleasant for you to cross swords with me."_

_"Is that so?" Lestrade appeared unimpressed. "How so?"_

_"In that I could make any further progression in your chosen career ... difficult," Mycroft replied politely._

_Lestrade snorted. "You're going to have to take a number... I've stepped on too many toes already. Or why do you think I'm still a sergeant?"_

_Mycroft's eyebrows rose in surprise. The sergeant's scruples were an annoyance at the moment, but his decency and honesty were rather refreshing._

 

_Lestrade took a key out of his pocket, stopped in front of one of the doors, and unlocked it. "After you." He gestured in invitation and stepped aside to allow Mycroft to enter. "I'll wait outside."_

_Mycroft nodded curtly to show he'd understood, stepped past Lestrade, opened the door and walked into the holding cell. Behind him, Lestrade closed the door with a soft click but didn't lock it._

_Sherlock was crouched on a pallet, his legs pulled up and his arms wrapped around his knees, glaring angrily at his brother. His expensive yet conservative clothing that marked him as a member of a family that was not only wealthy but highborn, was soiled and even torn in places. A wave of some foul stench reached Mycroft's nose._

_He took out his handkerchief and held it in front of his nose primly. "You smell like a cheap waterfront tavern," Mycroft remarked acidly._

_"You would know," Sherlock retorted cattily._

_As Mycroft didn't stoop to respond to the obvious provocation, an uncomfortable silence fell over the cell until Sherlock finally broke it._

_"Get out of here – I don't want you here," he hurled at Mycroft._

_"And I do not wish to be here," Mycroft responded coldly. "A rare moment of unity, don't you find, little brother?" His lips curled in derision._

_Sherlock glared daggers at him. “What did Mrs Hudson always use to say? When two people think the same thing, one of them gets a wish? You know what my wish is.”_

_“Too bad you don’t have a genie in a bottle to fulfil it.”_

_Sherlock sneered, murmuring, “My wishes...” He directed a blazing look at Mycroft. “And what about your wishes?”_

_"Fortunately, you don't know mine," Mycroft replied impassively._

_A bitter laugh sounded. "You underestimate me, Mycroft. I've known for a long time that you'd love to see me dead. I may even do you the favour one of these days."_

_Mycroft's forehead wrinkled and his expression changed. "You don't know what you're saying."_

_"What are you doing here, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked icily, disregarding Mycroft's comment._

_"Bailing you out of jail. Again," Mycroft explained in his usual superior manner._

_"And?" Sherlock leaned back on the pallet with a smirk. "Are you going to make sure it doesn't go on my record?"_

 

_"Of course."_

_"No need to put yourself out on my account. At least I'd have some peace and quiet from you in jail."_

_Mycroft took a deep, calming breath. Then he said, barely able to maintain his composure: "It would break Mummy's heart."_

_Sherlock regarded him apathetically. "Mama Sylvia doesn't give a fuck about me."_

_"Sherlock!" Mycroft reproached him, indignant._

_"She doesn't give much of one for you either," Sherlock pressed on with a spiteful smile as he leaned back against the wall, linked his hands behind his head and crossed his legs on top of the pallet._

_Mycroft's cheeks flushed dark red and he ground his teeth but remained silent._

_Sherlock's smile faded slowly away. "Why don't you just leave me alone?" He sounded harried._

_"Just when you were finally starting to act like a reasonable human being!" Mycroft forced out from between gritted teeth. "You're a Holmes! It's about time you started acting like one and stopped heaping shame on your family with your repugnant behaviour."_

 

_"Me? I'm a Holmes?!" Sherlock cried with a slightly manic laugh and sat up. "Since when?" he roared, infuriated. "Since when am I suddenly a fully recognised member of this oh-so-noble family? I've never been anything but an embarrassment to you! I was never good enough for you! Never! Each and every one of you let me know constantly that I would never have anything on you – the legitimate son and heir." His breaths came fast and heavy. "The least you can do is admit it, Mycroft!" he hurled at his brother. "You're only watching out for me because you're afraid your bastard brother might ruin your career! And maybe that's exactly what I aim to do...maybe I'm doing all of this on purpose! Who knows? I'm the only person in your life you can't control! That must be a rather bitter pill for a control freak such as yourself."_

_"May I remind you that not only our father, but my mother as well, adopted you, and that you never wanted for anything?" Mycroft hissed. "Mummy never treated you differently than me."_

_Sherlock leered at him. "Yes. That must have rankled. You, such a Mummy's boy, yet she never gave you preferential treatment. That must have stung," he said viciously._

_Mycroft's fingers clenched the handle of his umbrella until his knuckles stood out white. "Sherlock – what do you want?"_

_"I want you to stay out of my life!"_

_"If that means I should stand by and watch you end in the gutter ... then I'm afraid I can't indulge that wish," Mycroft stated firmly._

 

_Sherlock ran his hands through his hair, agitated. "Why not? You don't want to have anything to do with me and I don't want to have anything to do with you!"_

_Mycroft shook his head silently, and Sherlock groaned unhappily._

_"I'll stay out of your life as soon as you stop dragging the Holmes name through the mud. Then, and only then. Not one moment sooner."_

_"I never asked to be a Holmes," Sherlock huffed. "I have never been a Holmes, and I will never be a Holmes." After that outburst, he paused a moment before his face lit up. "I don't want to be a Holmes anymore," he repeated in a firm, low voice, and met his brother's eye. "Mycroft ... I've been of age for some time now... I'm going to use my mother's name from now on."_

_"Sigerson?" Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "That's..."_

_"It would be in everyone's best interests," Sherlock interrupted him quickly. "The Holmes name would never be associated with me again."_

_Mycroft hesitated._

_"Or is that too much to ask, Mycroft?" Sherlock taunted. "Is your sphere of influence too small after all to take care of a trifle like this?"_

 

_Mycroft's eyes glittered at him coldly. "My influence is more than large enough. I was just wondering how far back I'll have to go to free the Holmes name from your escapades."_

_"I'm not interested in the details," Sherlock said generously. "I'll leave all of that to you. Oh yes... as long as we're having such a nice chat ... be good enough to arrange for a new university for me."_

_Mycroft groaned in a pained manner. "Why did they toss you out this time?"_

_"The usual ... I told the chemistry lecturer what I think of him," Sherlock explained with a shrug and a broad smile._

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

"Sherlock Sigerson..." John finally drawled. "I'm afraid we're going to have to have a little talk."

 

"You've been making inquiries about me," Sherlock said. His mouth felt as dry as a bone, and it was incredibly difficult for him to speak.

 

"Of course I have," John replied with a small, rather unpleasant smile. "I like to know about things I regularly stick my dick into."

 

Sherlock swallowed hard. Just how thorough had Mycroft been back then? How far back had he gone? He'd never bothered himself about it. Why had he been so neglectful? It didn't even bother him that John had referred to him as a _'thing'_. His mind was occupied with entirely different considerations. How much did John know? Was he playing cat and mouse with him? He wouldn't put it past him... it would fit in with his sadistic tendencies... but was he really as cruel as that? Sherlock didn't know. He simply didn't know. He, who had always found it easy to read people, to divine their secrets, was failing right at this decisive moment. His talents had left him in the lurch before where John was concerned. But did it have to be now?

 

"Well?" Sherlock finally asked with deliberate nonchalance, even as his brain was working feverishly. "Anything interesting?" He indicated the folder but didn't touch it, despite the fact that his fingers were itching to.

 

John chewed on the inside of his cheek. "You might say that..." he remarked slowly. Sherlock's eyes narrowed. What was going on? Was John uneasy? Why should he be uneasy? "You do drugs," John stated somewhat abruptly, giving Sherlock only a fleeting glance.

 

"I'm... I'm clean," Sherlock stammered in astonishment. He hadn't expected this turn of events. What in the world was so interesting about his drug use?

 

"Yeah, right," John replied with a snort. "I thought you'd say that. That's what they all say." He ran a hand over his hair. "All I meant was... if you think you've found a cheap source for your addiction, you're barking up the wrong tree. There's no way I'm going to shunt any free samples your way. But..." He sighed and smoothed down his hair again. "But before you shoot up with any of that shit they sell on the streets, I'd rather you come to me."

 

Sherlock followed this little speech with wide eyes and a pounding heart. Once John was finished – still refusing to look at him – Sherlock wordlessly took off his jacket and his shirt as quickly as he could.

 

"John," he said quietly, yet firmly, waiting until John returned his gaze. "I'm clean." He held out his arms and gave John time to check over his flawless skin, which didn't show a single needle mark.

 

John exhaled. "Good," he said, nodding. He seemed relieved yet not completely satisfied. But it appeared to be enough for the moment.

 

"Don't you think your behaviour's a bit hypocritical?" Sherlock couldn't help asking.

 

"Hypocritical?" John replied, puzzled.

 

"Yes," Sherlock answered calmly. "Given the fact that your main source of income is most certainly the drug trade, your attitude toward drug consumption does seem to me to be a bit ... _sanctimonious_."

 

"Given the fact that I'm spending a large portion of those proceeds on you, I'd shut up if I were you," John cut him off, but he seemed to be amused, and Sherlock allowed himself to breathe a little easier. "But I'm not so surprised anymore that you're such a smartarse. You must have always been like that."

 

"Always?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow. "How far back did your inquiries go?" He asked the question lightly, as if in passing, as if it didn't really interest him but were rather a point of amusement. Despite the fact that his guts had been churning ever since John tossed that blasted folder on the bed.

 

"College," John answered, as if he had nothing to hide. "Your playground battles don't really interest me. Why? Did I miss a skeleton somewhere in your closet?"

 

 _‘If only you knew...’_ Sherlock thought, saying instead with a short laugh, "Those battles were really quite legendary."

 

John responded to the laugh with a grin. "Why am I not surprised? You must have always been a troublemaker." He gestured at the folder. "Arrests for fighting, drugs, public intoxication... you transferred universities..."

 

"I don't go looking for trouble," Sherlock countered smoothly. "Trouble finds me."

 

"You'll allow me to have my own opinion on that count," John said, beckoning him closer with his forefinger.

 

Sherlock came closer, stopping in front of the armchair John had been standing next to the whole time, the one he'd laid his coat on.

 

"I still need to punish you for disobeying me last time," John began, causing Sherlock to widen his eyes in outrage.

 

"Disobeying?" he blurted out. "Disob... I was never as obedient as..."

 

"Ah-ah-ah," John cut off his indignant speech. "Did you kiss me or not?"

 

"Yes, I did," Sherlock admitted with a defiant look on his face.

 

"And?" John asked, drawing the word out. "Did I give you permission to do that?"

 

"You didn't tell me not to!" Sherlock boasted, and John sighed.

 

"What am I going to do with you..." John muttered in mock desperation. "You act like a spoiled brat. A good beating will do you a world of good." John took note of the greedy gleam in Sherlock's eye, and couldn't suppress a smirk any longer.

 

"John..." Sherlock whispered, kneeling on the armchair so that he had to look up at John. "John... then I suggest you punish me in advance this time."

 

"Why?" John asked, trying not to let it show how much Sherlock's kneeling position aroused him.

 

"Because I plan on kissing you quite a lot," Sherlock murmured, leaned his head back, stretched his neck and presented his slightly parted lips to John. When John didn't react quickly enough, Sherlock sighed impatiently and muttered, "Oh, really now..." placed one hand on the back of John's neck and pulled him down until their lips met.

 

John had always got a kick out of kissing someone who was shorter than him ... or who was underneath him. Sherlock must have guessed that. The warm, soft lips opened for him hungrily, and with their heat nearly erased the memory of that first, chaste kiss from a few days ago. But there was almost an innocent sweetness in the meeting of their lips, tongues, and teeth this time as well, and it touched John just as deeply as it had with their first kiss.

 

To John, each one of Sherlock's kisses felt – as unlikely as it sounded - as if they were the first ones for this incredible man he was holding in his arms - which had at some point wrapped themselves around the body kneeling before him without him even thinking about it. As Sherlock sucked on his tongue, John kicked himself mentally for being such an idiot. _His first kiss!_ _Ridiculous_. Why had he even thought of that? Sherlock's technique was brilliant – the execution masterful. He must have shared thousands of kisses before. Still, John couldn't resist the charm of such utter devotion to the interplay of their tongues; of the attempt to meld with another body. He had to remind himself rather sharply that Sherlock was nothing more than a whore – God... but what a talented whore!

 

At some point, he noted vaguely that Sherlock's agile fingers were fumbling with his belt. In a flash, he buried his hand in the dark curls and yanked Sherlock's head back.

 

"That wasn't the deal, my friend. I should really put you over my knee for that, you insolent bastard," John growled. "Maybe that will teach you to behave."

 

Sherlock's face lit up at his words. "What are you waiting for?"

 

"Why I do I have the feeling that wouldn't really be a punishment for you?" John asked sternly, but with a good-natured twinkle in his eye.

 

"No idea," Sherlock rejoined with a deliberate grin, and caressed the bulge in John's trousers as if by accident.

 

"Get on the bed!" John ordered him, pulling Sherlock along by the hair.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

A short while later, John sat – fully clothed – on the edge of the bed with Sherlock, who was now naked, draped over his right thigh. His playmate's long legs were clamped between his thighs to keep them immobile – although John didn't think Sherlock would try to kick him or escape ... he had climbed onto his lap far too eagerly for that. While Sherlock balanced himself with one arm on the bed and the other hand on the floor, John felt for his half-hard erection and arranged it so that it hung down between Sherlock's legs, pressing against the side of John's thigh.

 

"Did you really think I'd let you rub off on my trousers and ruin them with your spunk?" John asked, although not in an unfriendly manner.

 

"It was worth a try," Sherlock responded cheerfully, pressing provocatively against John's thigh with a soft moan.

 

"Unbelievable," John muttered, shaking his head. "At least this way you'll only make a mess on the floor." Then he pulled his left hand back and, without any warning, slapped the pure white skin of Sherlock's buttocks.

 

A soft cry – more out of surprise than pain – escaped Sherlock's lips.

 

"How many?" he asked huskily. "How many do I get?"

 

"As many as necessary," John answered with a fiendish grin and slapped Sherlock again.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

After the first ten blows, Sherlock's skin had turned pink, whereby John made sure to spread his slaps as evenly as possible over the surface area at his disposal.

 

After twenty blows, Sherlock's buttocks were redder and he began to wriggle his hips restlessly.

 

After thirty blows, John took a short break, since his palm was beginning to sting. Sherlock's arse looked somewhat battered, but he wasn't showing any signs of discomfort. Quite the opposite. John could feel quite clearly that something hard and hot was pressing against his thigh.

 

After forty blows, Sherlock began to moan softly and arch into the hits. But he still flinched away after every one. It almost came across like a dance to John... approaching and retreating in an even rhythm.

 

After fifty blows, the beleaguered skin was glowing with palpable warmth, as was John's hand. Although he preferred direct contact like this for spankings, he thought he might have to revert to some kind of implement if he ever had to punish his playmate in earnest, in order to spare his hands. Sherlock was breathing heavily, and John's respiration had also increased during the course of the procedure.

 

Sherlock's willingness was extremely arousing, and the pleasure he took in this kind of pain was highly stimulating. John's own erection pressed almost painfully against the flies of his trousers.

 

John caressed the overheated skin of Sherlock's arse with a gentle touch, eliciting a deep, throaty sigh. John repeated the caress several more times, observing hungrily how Sherlock writhed on his lap with increasing arousal. When, instead of letting his fingertips glide gently over the soft curves, John scraped his nails across the sensitive skin, Sherlock cried out, choking off the sound, and the hard length pressing against John's thigh twitched.

 

"I think you've had enough," John declared, gave the buttocks in his lap one last pat, and placed one hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Get up – you're getting too heavy. My legs are falling asleep."

 

Sherlock's glassy gaze turned to him, and his lips parted to form a single regretful word: "Already?" All that was missing was the pout.

 

"Insatiable slut," John scolded him, pushing Sherlock down onto his knees between his spread legs. "Maybe this will finally stop your backtalk," he muttered in a husky voice, opened his flies, took a condom out of the inside pocket of his jacket, tore open the package, and rolled it down over his fully erect penis with a practiced motion.

 

Only then did he look at Sherlock again, kneeling before him, his eyes still glassy, licking his lips greedily at the sight of John's erection. A hot and cold shiver ran down John's back at the sight, and his groin throbbed.

 

"Fuck," John moaned softly, biting down on his lips as Sherlock placed his hands calmly on John's thighs and slowly slipped his mouth over the tip of John's penis.

 

The gentle suction, the greedy licks, the accommodating throat, and the warm, wet mouth made John tremble. A surge of heat rolled through his body, concentrating itself between his legs. His stiff cock twitched in Sherlock's mouth, and Sherlock pulled back. He sought John's gaze through half-lidded eyes, and when he found it, he held it and licked John's sensitive glans just with the very tip of his tongue. Each lick released a new tingle of pleasure, and it took John quite a bit of effort to maintain his rapidly crumbling self-control.

 

Finally, Sherlock opened his lips wider than just a crack. Finally, he took the entire hard, twitching length into his throat. Finally ... the long-awaited up-and-down motions ... sucking, licking, intoxicating.

 

Sherlock moaned, and John felt the vibration through the narrow, heated sheath surrounding his firm flesh.

 

"Again," he ordered roughly. His fingers sought and found the unruly curls, delved into them, pulled and yanked, and Sherlock moaned again. More vibrations, more pleasure, more urgency ... "Again!" Moans, vibrations. Tightness. Heat. Pressure. John's hips jerked forward, deeper, ever deeper into that sinful mouth...

 

With a hoarse cry, John found his release and let himself fall backwards onto the bed. In the fog of his diminishing climax, he perceived Sherlock still kneeling between his knees. He lifted his head a bit, only to meet Sherlock's burning, glittering eyes.

 

John sat up again, his gaze wandering over Sherlock's deferential posture, until it landed between his legs. A leer spread across his face.

 

"I assume you'd like to come as well?" he said nonchalantly, nudging his chin in the direction of his playmate's stiffly protruding member.

 

"Yes," Sherlock answered promptly, belatedly adding a bashful "...please?"

 

"You're a fast learner," John acknowledged, licking his lips. "All right. I think we can indulge you." He pressed a button on his watch. "You have three minutes."

 

Sherlock blinked.

 

"Three minutes? Should I ... myself?"

 

"You're not generally this stupid," John said, shaking his head in mock concern. "Of course you should get yourself off. I'd start right quick if I were you. The clock's running."

 

Sherlock's fingers clamped down around his erection, practically in a frenzy. He lowered himself, sat down on his heels, and inhaled sharply through his teeth when the sore skin of his buttocks came into contact with his feet. The rigid flesh between his fingers twitched happily anyway, and Sherlock began to jerk himself off.

 

"Two minutes," John reported neutrally.

 

"Not helping," Sherlock hissed, wriggled his arse around a bit against his heels and groaned softly. "What happens... if I ... if I don't make it?" he gasped, turning his bleary gaze to John as he continued to pump his stiff shaft with rapid movements.

 

"Oh, that's easy." John smiled unpleasantly, and Sherlock shuddered. "I tie you to the bed and wait until your hard-on goes away. Then and only then do I untie you."

 

"Oh God," Sherlock groaned, applying himself more intensively.

 

"One minute," John said with a cold smile. He kept an eye on the stopwatch but decided not to count down the last few seconds. When Sherlock only had thirty seconds left, a shudder shook his entire body, his breath caught in his throat, his penis seemed to swell even further, and accompanied by a gravelly shout, semen shot out between his fingers, which he repositioned almost immediately to cover the head.

 

John wondered what that was about, but as soon as Sherlock was in control of himself again, he lifted his hand and licked his own emissions off his fingers. All the while he kept his eyes fixed on John – whose own penis was twitching hopefully, albeit uselessly - with an arrogantly seductive gaze. Once Sherlock's fingers were clean, he hunkered back down on his heels, shivered once, sighed softly, and appeared extremely satisfied with himself.

 

John's voice, therefore, laced with a frostiness he wasn't prepared for, made him flinch.

 

"You missed some."

 

"What... where?" Sherlock asked, puzzled, following John's accusing glare down to his shoes, where, indeed, the first splatter of semen had landed that he hadn't been able to catch with his hand.

 

"Made to order. Hand-made. Calfskin," John enumerated. His eyes narrowed. "Clean it. Now."

 

Without hesitating so much as a second, Sherlock bent down and licked the semen off John's shoe.

 

The willingness with which Sherlock carried out the act of submission took John's breath away, made his throat go dry, and caused his penis to throb again – although still, unfortunately, in vain.

 

But when Sherlock sat up again, gave him a baleful look and said in all seriousness, "Your shoe polish tastes horrendous. If you want me to do that again, I'd be obliged if you'd switch brands," John's incipient arousal reverted easily into amusement.

 

"I should put you over my knee again for that," John said, half smiling.

 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "You probably should. But I'm afraid your hand isn't in a fit state to put that threat into action," Sherlock declared sceptically, and with mild regret.

 

John nodded in acknowledgment. "Clever boy," he praised him so sweetly that Sherlock raised both eyebrows. "You've forgotten one very important thing, however... I have another hand." John stood up, removed the used condom, and did up his trousers. "Upper body on the bed, arms on your back, knees on the floor," he commanded brusquely. Sherlock made haste to comply with the order. He registered gratefully that John had tossed one of the big, decorative pillows from the bed onto the floor, in order to spare his knees a bit.

 

Once he was in the desired position, his legs spread wide, he turned his head toward John. His fascinating eyes were sparkling with life before he closed them and presented his arse to John for the first blow.

 

To his surprise, John felt his penis filling with blood and becoming stiff again. This young man was the best thing he'd come across in a long time ... to think of all the things he could do to him ... and he even enjoyed it, not just put up with it, as had most of his predecessors.

 

Then John took a deep breath, leant over, laid one hand on Sherlock's back, pulled back with the other, and bore down hard on the proffered flesh.

 

The loud slapping sound almost got lost in Sherlock's pleasure-filled groan, and John wondered how long pain and pleasure would remain in balance, and how many blows would be necessary to turn the lust-filled moans into tearful whimpers.

 

Maybe he would find out tonight. And maybe he should give Mike a bonus ... a new car, or a holiday for him and Susan at an exclusive spa... after all, he was the one who had suggested that John honour Miss Adler's establishment with his presence that evening. And even though it hadn't seemed like it at the time, it was by far the best idea Mike had had in a long while.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

**_To be continued..._ **

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

There's a picset for this chapter too. They are fun to make… but just don't expect one every time...

<http://lorelei-lee.tumblr.com/post/116023138059/teaser-deflowered-directors-cut-chapter-11>

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	12. A little Night Music

**Chapter 12: A Little Night Music**

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

When Mike pushed down the handle of the door to John's office for the first time in two weeks, he could have sworn he heard someone whistling a melody _(Mozart? Was that really Mozart? It sounded like it)_ , but it stopped as soon as he set foot in the room. Given that he'd put his foot in it big time the last time he mentioned John whistling, Mike decided to act as if he hadn't heard anything.

 

He breathed a big internal sigh of relief. It could really have been that he'd find John in a foul mood. But apparently nothing terrible had happened in London over the Christmas holidays.

 

"Happy New Year, John," Mike greeted his friend.

 

A smile brightened John's face, and he stood up from his desk to shake Mike's hand.

 

"Happy New Year to you too, Mike." His appraising gaze wandered over Mike's non-existent waist. "Mike... I think you've actually lost some weight. That mini-break at that spa seems to have worked miracles. Or are mattress gymnastics with Susan the reason for the ... two pound loss?" he asked with a boyish wink.

 

"Three!" Mike corrected him, pretending to be insulted, before laughing good-naturedly. "I still don't know what I did to deserve such an extravagant holiday, but I'm not complaining. Thanks, John. The hotel, the whole stay ... it was nothing short of first-class."

 

John made a dismissive gesture. "What? Can't I give my number one a little Christmas bonus?"

 

Mike grinned. "Speaking of Christmas ... how were things around here? Everything all right? No problems?"

 

"Not really. The mafia being such good Catholics, crime takes a holiday for Christmas too," he answered with a shrug. "There were just a couple of hotheads down south in Roehampton who thought they could spit in our soup."

 

"Protection?"

 

John shook his head. "Drugs," he said shortly. "Didn't end well for them."

 

"Where'd they have the stuff from?" Mike wanted to know. "Did our guys siphon some off to sell to those scumbags?"

 

"Doesn't look like it," John said. "It wasn't so much after all, and the quality was pretty low. Looked to me like someone had cooked it up in their kitchen somewhere."

 

"Hmm." Mike made a neutral sound, taking a seat in the leather armchair. "I saw on my way over that they've put up the first campaign posters."

 

"Hmm," John agreed, taking a seat across from him.

 

"It's a good shot of our guy. Nice picture," Mike said, nodding. John rolled his eyes. "What?" Mike asked. "There's always going to be some uncertainty in these things. I can pay off the right people, but total control..." He shook his head apologetically. "That's beyond even me. That's why it can't hurt if our candidate gets a few honest votes."

 

"If you say so..." John said indulgently. "Can I offer you something? Cognac? To toast the new year?"

 

Mike smacked his lips greedily. John did have a very fine selection in his personal bar.

 

"You're not going to hear a no from me," Mike answered cheerfully.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

The sulphurous smell of a burnt match. The crackle of the wick when the flame reached the wax. The ropes around his wrists and ankles. The cool sheets beneath his naked body. The rustling of clothing whenever John moved.

 

The blackness behind his blindfold.

 

The waiting.

 

The uncertainty.

 

The stiffness between his legs.

 

The goose pimples all over his body whenever John touched him, whenever he clasped his hand loosely around his hard cock.

 

The complete silence before he felt it. Light as a feather. Like rain on his skin and then – a single blink later – the searing pain. The heat spreading outward from his glans to race through his entire body. The throbbing, slowly diminishing until the pain receded and then ... the unbearably erotic wait for the next drop of hot wax.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

"John... I can't take any more!"

 

"Yes. You can."

 

A shake of his head. No. Sweat running off his forehead.

 

His penis harder and more swollen than it had been in a very long time.

 

The beads inside him.

 

How many were there? Four? He'd lost count. Something that virtually never happened. God – four identical beads, as big as ping-pong balls.

 

So full. So tight. So good when they slid past his prostate.

 

The relentless pressure on his opening.

 

"No, John!"

 

"One more. I know you can take it."

 

"I don't want it!"

 

"Yes, you do."

 

"John!"

 

The pressure diminishing. Disappointment and relief.

 

"You know the magic word, Sherlock."

 

A silent nod. Yes, he knew it. Please. _Please_. PLEASE. He knew it. But he didn't say it. Because then it would all be over. The pain, the arousal. The gentle hand on his back.

 

The pressure increased. He relaxed his muscles as much as he could and bore down for John.

 

Five beads.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Gentle rocking motions. Soft kisses on the back of his neck. The prickling in his right arm from lying on it and partially blocking the blood supply. John curled around him. From head to foot. Skin to skin. His erection buried deep inside Sherlock, nothing more than these slow, almost tender, rocking thrusts. John's hand on his half-mast shaft. Lightly stroking. Relaxation and arousal at the same time.

 

"Do you think you can again?"

 

"Maybe..."

 

Three deeper, faster, harder thrusts. Then – stillness.

 

"What about now, Sherlock? Are you more sure now?"

 

He could all but feel the sarcastic yet almost affectionate smile against his shoulder as the question was posed.

 

"Anything's possible..."

 

Several more deep, hard thrusts, and then the gentle rocking motion again.

 

His muscles contracted, and John groaned.

 

"Fuck, Sherlock... do that again..."

 

This time, he clenched his muscles deliberately around the throbbing, hard length deep inside him. A moan. Lips sucking at the skin of his shoulder. Another deep thrust, then stillness once more.

 

"Again..."

 

Soft, sensual, and slow, until their simultaneous climax was no longer the declared goal, but merely a pleasant side effect.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

After several weeks had passed, one might say that Sherlock's life had taken on a certain routine character.

 

John came twice a week and stayed with him for two hours – and no matter how ashamed Sherlock was of the fact, he couldn't deny that his life revolved almost solely around those four hours. As someone who had no illusions about the fact that he tended to succumb to addictions, he was fully aware that he was on the best way to falling head over heels under John's spell, and that with a frankly horrific ease and rapidity. He smoked less, ate more healthily, and took great care with his appearance ... all because he knew John preferred it. He hated himself for it, and swore to himself over and over again that he wouldn't become so dependent – especially not on another person. But then John would show up and do such wonderful things with him that Sherlock tossed out all of his resolutions ... until John left again.

 

Irene made sure that Sherlock had a day off both before and after John's _house calls_ – as she continued to jokingly refer to his visits. Although Sherlock never asked her to do so, she never booked another client for him on those days. They didn't discuss it, but Sherlock was certain that she thought she was doing him some great service with this arrangement.

 

Sherlock, on the other hand, was of a different opinion. Her supposedly caring behaviour irritated him like a scratchy tag in a new shirt. He knew exactly what she aimed to achieve with the forced rest periods... on the one hand, she was giving Sherlock a day to recover, which he did need once in a while, as John demanded quite a lot of him both physically and mentally, even if Sherlock enjoyed every single second of those experiences. On the other hand, she wanted to avoid John finding any marks on Sherlock's body that might have been caused by other guests.

 

In fact, very few clients ever left marks on any of Irene's employees, yet Sherlock suspected Irene of only sending him clients whose preferences were ridiculously _vanilla_. Sherlock knew he should be grateful, but the opposite was the case. A small, twisted part of him craved the confrontation that was certain to occur should John discover a stranger's marks on his skin. Sherlock suspected that John's reaction would be extremely ugly, but – as mentioned - a part of him was all but itching for it and wanted to rub his intractable repeat punter's nose in the fact that other men pleasured themselves with him as well.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

"So, you're this Sherlock everyone's talking about. Open your mouth nice and wide then."

 

Sherlock sighed. It was always the same old thing. While he did what the client wanted (without any snotty remarks, more or less for Irene's sake), his thoughts wandered.

 

It was almost ironic that the activity he'd taken up to combat his almost agonising boredom was ending up leading to even more ennui.

 

"Hey, a little more enthusiasm if you don't mind!"

 

Sherlock suppressed a yawn and applied himself a bit more. What was wrong with whorehouse clients these days? No imagination ... no refinement... had it always been like this or was he just noticing it now – now that he had John to compare them to?

 

"That's better ... Oh yeah ... you're good at that, you ruddy tramp ..." Rough hands grabbed his hair.

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes behind their closed lids. Wonderful ... another pseudo-dom. But the ultra polite ones were almost worse. Always apologising and asking questions _... ‘Is this all right? Is that unpleasant at all? I'm terribly sorry’_ ... Awful!

 

"Come on... show me how fucking hard this is making you..." The hands pulled his hair, and Sherlock gasped automatically.

 

"Ow!" he cried indignantly, jerking his head away to free his curls from the sweaty paws.

 

"Hey... why's your willy still so limp?"

 

"Perhaps because I'm bored?" Sherlock retorted without thinking, glaring at his client in challenge and waiting.

 

"I... what..." the man stammered, before gathering his wits. "My dick's made a helluva lot of boys happy. It's not my fault you can't get it up. Maybe Irene should be handing out Viagra..."

 

"An erectile enhancer wouldn't change the fact that you look like a hirsute ape and your armpits smell like one. And how in the world you fancy that appendage between your legs to be anything other than ridiculous, is truly a mystery to me."

 

The slap wasn't entirely unexpected.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

"Sherlock... don't fall asleep," Jason murmured, punching him lightly in the shoulder. "The old windbag pays too well for me to give him up as a client."

 

"Yes, yes," Sherlock said and attempted to rouse a bit more enthusiasm. It was difficult, however. Although he was lying on a soft bed, it was anything other than pleasant to be underneath Lord Windermere - who was crouched over him on his hands and knees - licking his balls, while Jason knelt behind him with his tongue up His Lordship’s arse.

 

To judge by the rattling sounds which His Lordship was making, he was either about to have an orgasm or a heart attack. Sherlock secretly hoped it was the latter. At least it would be something different.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

One night, when Sherlock couldn't fall asleep because his arse was still stinging so pleasantly from being spanked by John, he thought about how his other clients usually treated him...

 

_"Suck me off..."_

_"Lick my balls..."_

_"That's it... put your hand on it..."_

_"Open my flies – but just with your mouth..."_

_"Oh yeah – I'm coming..."_

 

And then there was John...

 

_"Take your clothes off and lie down..."_

_"What do you want? Another finger? That'll be four ... good boy..."_

_"I know you want to come... not quite yet..."_

_"Don't forget to breathe..."_

_"I'm going to bind your balls now..."_

 

And then it was as if someone took his blinders off.

 

With the other clients, it was always _'me, me, me'_ – Sherlock was merely a means to an end.

 

But with John ... with John, _he_ was the centre of attention. As odd as it might sound, for John, he – _Sherlock_ – was the main attraction; he was the one who deserved all the attention. John put him first. He, Sherlock – not John's sex organ and its gratification.

 

Of course, John also climaxed every time – but before that, he usually concentrated all of his efforts on Sherlock, and Sherlock was often the first who was allowed to have an orgasm.

 

All the others thought of themselves first – John always thought of Sherlock first.

 

Sherlock stared into the darkness of his bedroom. The insight was both shocking and gratifying.

 

"Am I that important to him?" he whispered softly into the night, only to shake his head immediately. "Not important enough... obviously. Otherwise he would have..." He fell silent, not wanting to complete the sentence. "Perhaps that's simply the kind of lover he is... perhaps he always puts his partner first. Maybe that's how he is with everyone," he murmured dully, torturing himself with the thought of John's previous lovers.

 

 _"He probably has someone now as well..."_ Sherlock thought grimly. He must have someone. A man like John was too desirable to be single. _"And that someone probably has no idea where John spends his time every Wednesday and Sunday ... but maybe that's why he comes to me, because that someone can't give him what I can..."_

 

Sherlock knew the path his mind was starting down was extremely dangerous, and he should make every effort to avoid taking even one more step along it.

  
He couldn't fall asleep at all that night. The emotions that broke over him like a storm defied any attempt at categorisation. In any case, the possibility of having to compete for someone's affection was a completely new experience. To have to work for it was nothing new ... he'd done that almost his entire life. But possibly having to share John ... that was something he wasn't prepared for.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

The nipple clamps bit ruthlessly into his flesh, and the vibrator in his arse made him quiver with bliss. The pain and pleasure, coexisting in a perfect balance, made Sherlock's arousal spiral upwards, turning him into putty in John's hands.

 

It was another of John's attempts to get Sherlock to climax without either of them touching his erection. Sherlock had lost any semblance of self-control after half an hour and begged John to tie him up.

 

The soft cotton ropes on his wrists, bound to the bedposts on both sides, held his arms in an outstretched position and made it impossible for him to touch himself. Whether intentionally or not.

 

This was already the sixth attempt they'd made, and although John had never let on that he might be disappointed by Sherlock's inability to ejaculate without direct stimulation, it was beginning to wear on Sherlock. What if John started looking for someone else because Sherlock kept letting him down? Even though Sherlock knew that thoughts like that weren't exactly conducive to this particular activity – in fact, they were downright counterproductive – he couldn't help it; they lurked at the edge of his consciousness every time John announced they were going to try again.

 

But maybe fate would smile on him tonight, and John's efforts would be rewarded. He'd never been as aroused as he was now – at least with regards to this particular kind of play. Never before had his entire body worked toward an orgasm so concertedly. Wave after wave of sexual ecstasy surged through him and carried him along, only to collapse without breaking on the sought after cliffs, and then to build again...

 

The vibrator provided continual stimulation to his prostate, making his swollen shaft throb. His lips and his throat were bone dry, and his body somehow seemed to belong to someone else.

 

Just a little more ... just a tiny bit more...

 

Although his eyes were closed, Sherlock felt John's gaze on him. John, who was still kneeling, fully clothed, between his bent legs, giving him heaven and hell with the battery-powered toy. Without being able to see him, he knew that John was rubbing himself between his legs with his free hand. Slowly, so slowly, he began fucking Sherlock with the vibrator.

 

Oh God, yes!!! That was it! That had to be it!

 

All the muscles in Sherlock's body seized up, his breath caught in his throat, his heart raced like mad. But still, nothing happened.

 

It was too little, and at the same time too much.

 

Again, the wave receded without Sherlock having come even an inch closer to his goal. Disappointment and disillusionment settled in him. His eyes burned.

 

 

Don't cry now. Not now. Not in front of John. For God's sake not in front of John!

 

"Sherlock?" A cautious hand touched his cheek.

 

"Everything's fine," Sherlock said. But even to his ears, it sounded wrong. He opened his eyes and tried to smile. He failed miserably, and his sight blurred. He noted in dismay that his erection was also deflating. He squeezed his eyes shut again, hoping to hold back the approaching tears that were burning in his throat and behind his eyelids.

 

The vibrator turned off with a quiet click.

 

"Don't lie to me. Something's wrong," he heard John say, stroking Sherlock's cheek with his hand until Sherlock couldn't stand it anymore and had to turn his face to the side.

 

"Nothing! It's nothing," he insisted, his voice thick.

 

"Sherlock?" John sounded honestly worried, and Sherlock felt the vibrator being removed from his body a bit too fast. He flinched. "Sherlock, look at me," John ordered him sternly, placing both hands on Sherlock's cheeks and forcing him to turn his face toward John. "Look at me," he said again, but this time his voice was more gentle. Sherlock opened his eyes reluctantly.

 

When he looked at John's face, all he could see was sincere concern, and the tears he'd worked so hard to hold back rolled down his cheeks.

 

"Sherlock... what is it?" John's soft, anxious voice and the caresses over his hair were harder for Sherlock to take than harsh words.

 

His head and his stomach felt icy cold as he forced his vocal cords to express his inadequacy.

 

"I ... I can't. I can't do it," he said in a shaky voice, and held his breath waiting for an answer, his heart pounding painfully. He found it strangely comforting that John didn't make any move to untie him.

 

"That... that's it?" he heard John ask. Sherlock looked up, feeling just as surprised as John sounded.

 

"John? I... don't think you heard ..." Instead of being relieved, Sherlock tried with typical pigheadedness to dissuade John of his opinion that Sherlock's inability to come without being touched was somehow irrelevant. John had to see that he was a failure! He'd always been a failure. His whole life long.

 

"Shhh," John said, laying a finger on his lips and making him fall silent. "I understand all too well."

 

God, tears! If there was one thing that made John's libido flare up like bellows to a fire, it was tears. His limbic system and his lower abdomen found themselves instantly in agreement, and some primitive programme in his brain began to scream at him: _"Take him! Now! Show him which side his bread's buttered on! And be quick! Before someone else snaps him up!"_ But these tears were falling for the wrong reasons. These tears shouldn't arouse John as much as they did. It therefore wasn't easy for him to do the right thing and rein in the lust that was flaring up in him. He didn't want to think about why he was exercising such caution. He'd come a long way – actually acting respectful toward a whore who was being paid to be used, after all ... no matter what the circumstances might be. Sherlock was certainly used to worse.

 

The urge to jump on Sherlock and take him – regardless of the consequences – arose in him once again.

 

He wet his lips, pushed away his own desires once more, and then – once he felt he could trust himself and his body's reactions again - looked down at Sherlock, who still appeared upset but seemed to have regained control over himself ... almost like someone who was just waiting for the inevitable to occur. Did he think John was going to punish him for his failure? No, that couldn't be it – a punishment was more like a reward for Sherlock. Had he perhaps come to the false conclusion that this whole thing was so important to John that he'd drop him like a hot potato now? That might be a reason for the almost panicked reaction that was playing out before his eyes. John was a reliable source of income for Sherlock – along the lines of a jackpot in the lottery, in prostitute's terms. John considered briefly how high Sherlock's debt to Irene must be, and how much longer he'd have to work to pay it off. But he forced himself to abandon that line of thought.

 

It was no big deal for John that Sherlock couldn't achieve an orgasm without being stimulated directly. But how should he make Sherlock believe that without sounding like some kind of mushy milksop? It was also entirely possible that Sherlock wouldn't believe him, thanks to his thick skull.

 

"Sherlock, it's fine," he finally said.

 

"No, it isn't," Sherlock contradicted him dully.

 

"Sherlock!" John repeated more firmly. "If I tell you it's fine then it's fine. And now stop fretting over it. Just forget it. All right?" John didn't wait for an answer, but continued speaking: "Let's do something else instead."

 

Sherlock hadn't taken his eyes off John for a second. His forehead was slightly creased in a pensive expression.

 

"You're not disappointed?" he asked suspiciously.

 

"Should I be?" John returned dryly, but as soon as he saw the confused look, he shook his head. "It was never intended to be some sort of _aptitude test_. So stop getting worked up over it and forget it."

 

Sherlock continued to watch him doubtfully. "You really mean it..." he finally said, puzzled.

 

"Of course I mean it... you're not someone I tend to lie to," John said, flicking his fingers – as if in passing - against the nipple clamp still attached to Sherlock's left breast.

 

Sherlock's startled gasp turned into a soft moan as the sensation of pain in his breast spread through his body, turning into throbbing arousal between his legs.

 

"Should I take them off?" John asked lightly, nudging the clips with care.

 

Now it was Sherlock's turn to wet his lips in desire. "Later..."

 

John grinned. "They're going to hurt a lot more when I take them off than they do now ... but I guess you know that..." His hands wrapped around Sherlock's awakening erection and rubbed up and down.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Later... after Sherlock had licked his own semen from John's fingers and John had pulled his trousers back up and was busy undoing Sherlock's bindings ... John bent over and whispered to him, "I don't want you to put so much pressure on yourself. Got it?" He waited for Sherlock's nod, then pressed his lips against Sherlock's mouth in a firm kiss.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

It was neither Wednesday nor Sunday when John – following a whim - directed his driver to take a detour past Miss Adler's house.

 

He wasn't alone in the car; two of his strong-arm men (or _'bodyguards'_ , as Mike always insisted) were with him, one on the front passenger seat and one next to him in the back. For that reason, he perhaps should have resisted the urge ... but he'd had a shitty day and wasn't in the mood to take his men and their quitting time into consideration.

 

"But boss, it's Friday," his driver ventured to point out.

 

"What about it, Bridges?" John snapped back. "I've had nothing but trouble all day. That meeting dragged on forever, all because a couple of snotnosed bastards mixed it up with our boys. And now that I feel like a little rest and relaxation, my driver takes it upon himself to file an objection?"

 

"Course not, boss," Bridges hurried to assure him. He flipped on the turn signal and followed the route designated by the man who signed his pay-cheque. He sent the bodyguard on the seat next to him a worried look, but he only replied with a barely noticeable shrug.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

**_To be continued..._ **

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

I know ... evil cliffie!


	13. Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo
> 
> WARNING!
> 
> This chapter contains non-con, dub-con and rape. 
> 
> Before you tar and feather me... read to the end of the chapter. I've written an additional explanation there as to the whys and wherefores. Thanks.
> 
> OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

**Chapter 13: Scars**

 

  

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

The bench Sherlock was lying stomach-down on was a special, made-to-order piece, padded with soft leather. It was adjustable to different heights, meaning that even with his long legs, Sherlock was able to find a relatively comfortable position and maintain it for quite a while without getting cramps. It also meant that there were several brackets in the legs of the bench, to which carabiners were affixed. The carabiners were in turn attached to leather cuffs, which held Sherlock's wrists and ankles, keeping him in a stretched and helpless position.

 

His lower body was pressed gently against the edge of the padding, the cool leather now having been warmed by his body temperature.

 

He'd already held out for an hour, and he was probably going to have to hold out for another hour, for as far as he'd been informed, Irene had pencilled this client in for just over two hours. Irene actually hadn't originally intended to give him this client, but two of the other boys – the ones usually held in reserve for this man – had cancelled, and she'd had to fall back on Sherlock, as none of her other employees came into consideration for such a long spanking session. And as this was a very good customer, Irene wanted to satisfy him no matter what, even if she had to send in Sherlock – whom she'd gone easy on lately for Doc Watson's sake. Sherlock, on the other hand, didn't know this client and didn't care who he was. At least he didn't lack a certain flair with the various spanking implements he'd applied to Sherlock's rear end.

 

The only somewhat unpleasant aspect was the hard rubber ball in his mouth that was being used as a gag, and which was fastened in place with a leather strap behind his head. Sherlock didn't like the way it tasted, nor did he like the way his saliva ran down his chin. It was humiliating in a way he couldn't appreciate, even if many of Irene's clients did.

 

But aside from that, there were more tedious ways to spend a Friday afternoon. His client was – as mentioned – rather skillful, and Sherlock allowed himself to daydream of John while the smacks rained down on him. It was easy to imagine John in the place of his actual client ... the intensity of the beating had increased gradually, and he was given breaks now and then to recover and prepare himself mentally for the next round – just like John did. But it was lacking slightly in terms of variety, and the rhythm wasn't quite right. However, the action was carried out with care and a fine grasp of the technique, such that Sherlock was relatively certain it wouldn't leave any marks.

 

Brutes who slashed away at cold skin with a cane would cause deep welts that might even burst and bleed when two strokes crossed each other.

 

Luckily, Sherlock didn't tend to bear marks on his skin for days on end anyway. He did regret that a bit – as long as they were marks that John left. He would have loved to admire those welts in the mirror for days, running his fingers over them as a reminder of the man who'd given them to him. But in general, any redness on his skin faded after a few hours and was almost completely gone by the next day. Especially if he was prepared thoroughly, and his skin was warmed up carefully – as was the case today.

 

First his client had used a soft flogger made of suede leather that caressed more than it hurt. Then he'd switched to a padded eventing whip, and only after that had he used a padded military crop. The blood supply to his skin was so robust now that the next step would probably be another, even heavier implement.

 

Sherlock was just wondering what that would be when he felt – as if in warning – the client lay the well-loved crop across his back. The gag in his mouth muffled his contented sigh, but he stretched within his bonds in an unmistakable gesture.

 

"You just can't wait, can you?" the client laughed, running his hands over Sherlock's heated buttocks. "Then let's get down to it and have some real fun."

 

Sherlock heard the other man's breathing change and felt one of the hands let go of his arse. The quiet panting was now accompanied by the typical slapping sound of masturbation. When roaming fingers slid down into the crack of his arse, Sherlock tried to relax completely. Bound and gagged as he was, he didn't have much choice.

 

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Bridges sat in the car with the two bodyguards, the three of them watching John go up the short set of stairs to the entrance of Irene Adler's brothel.

 

"That's not going to end well," Bridges murmured.

 

"His bloke's sure to be busy with someone else," growled the man on the passenger seat.

 

"Don't tell _me_ , Dave. But the boss apparently didn't think of that," Bridges replied.

 

"And we're the ones who'll have to take the arse end of his temper," Dave rejoined before turning to the man in the back seat. "Oi, Naresh ... knuckle-duster, knife, or should we go right for the heat?"

 

Naresh shrugged. "Depends what the bouncers in that knocking shop are packing... and how many there are. It'll probably be enough for us to show them our shooters. No matter how bad a temper the boss is in – not even _he's_ likely to want to shoot the place up in broad daylight."

 

Bridges turned halfway round to look into the back seat. "Come on. Boss isn't as bad as all that."

 

Dave and Naresh exchange an incredulous look, then tried unsuccessfully to cut off their grunts of laughter.

 

"I mean it!" Bridges insisted. "I've had much worse employers. The Doc might not always mind his p's and q's but I always get paid on time. And he's never puked in the car or pulled anyone from the street and got off in the back ... and then took the cost for cleaning it up out of my pay-cheque because the stains wouldn't come all the way out."

 

"Well... put it that way," Naresh conceded with another shrug.

 

"Okay..." Dave – who had been keeping a close eye on the entrance - interrupted their chatter. "The boss just signalled... guess that's our cue."

 

"Let's go then," Naresh said, climbing out of the car with a sigh.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

"Doc... er... Mr Watson!" Miss Adler's doorman stammered in greeting as soon as he opened the door in answer to John's knock. "But... it's Friday..."

 

John huffed. "Why does everyone around here think they have to show me the calendar?"

 

"Oh, I didn't mean to do that, Mr Watson," the doorman rushed to assure him. "I only thought..."

 

"Do you think those thoughts might eventually lead to asking me in?" John interrupted him acidly.

 

The doorman swallowed, his Adam's apple visibly bobbing. "Of course..." he replied, although he still didn't give any indication of actually moving out of the way. "It's just..." he began, cut himself off, and then spoke rapidly, as if he'd just had a brilliant idea: "What can we do for you today?"

 

John looked at him as if he'd lost his mind.

 

"You can let me in to see Sherlock... what else do you think?"

 

"Yeah, of course... it's just... it's Friday..." He watched as John's expression darkened, and gulped again. "Sherlock's busy at the moment," he croaked softly. "But if you'd like to wait in the lounge..."

 

John's expression didn't crack one millimetre as he asked, very evenly: "Sherlock is _what_?"

 

"Busy..." the doorman tried again, his voice fading, just before noting with relief that his boss was coming down the stairs. He tried to give her an unobtrusive hand signal.

 

"Who with?" John asked icily.

 

"Mr Glendale." Out of the corner of his eye, the doorman saw that Irene had received his signal and was approaching the door with a frown on her face.

 

"The union leader... interesting," John remarked flatly. "Which room?"

 

The first beads of perspiration appeared on the doorman's forehead.

 

"I can't tell you that," he answered valiantly.

 

John moistened his upper lip. "Oh yes, I believe you can," he said in a cool voice, pulling back his coat and jacket just enough for the doorman to be able to see the shoulder holster and the gun riding in it.

 

"Room eleven – but I really can't..." the doorman made one last, desperate attempt. Why did the boss lady have to wear such high heels? She'd have been at the door already if she wore flats, and could have dealt with the mob boss herself. If he ever came out of this mess alive, he was going to demand a pay rise!

 

"Have fun trying to stop me." Without turning around, John lifted his left hand and snapped twice.

 

He could tell from the doorman's increasingly pale face that his men were acting on his order. Shortly thereafter, Dave and Naresh grabbed the doorman by the arms and muscled him roughly aside. Just as John stepped across the threshold, Irene Adler came toddling up to him – as pale as the doorman beneath her makeup.

 

"Doc! What are you doing here? Today's..." she called out without thinking, before biting her tongue.

 

"FRIDAY!" John completed her exclamation, gritting his teeth grimly. "I KNOW!" He then continued on his way. His two bodyguards followed him at his signal, their expressions stoic.

 

"Hank!" Irene turned on her doorman. "Are you all right?" At his weak nod, the concerned employer metamorphosed into an infuriated harpy. "What in the world is going on here?! Why did you let Doc Watson in?! On a Friday?!"

 

"I didn't have a choice! He had a gun!" Hank retorted angrily. "What was I supposed to do?!"

 

"Lie?" Irene snapped back. "You could have told him Sherlock's sick and not receiving visitors today – or that he's not in at all!"

 

Hank stared at the floor, chagrined. "Sorry... didn't think of it in all the confusion."

 

Irene tossed her hands in the air. "Lord give me patience!" she cried. "Where was Doc even going? He doesn't know where..." Irene's eyes narrowed in fury. "You didn't give him the room number, did you?!"

 

Hank tried to make himself as small as possible, which was basically impossible given his nearly two-metre frame and his weight of over 200 pounds.

 

Irene was about to light into Hank when she realised what he'd said a few moments ago. "Wait... he has a gun?"

 

Hank nodded, and Irene paled even further. "If I find so much as a single bullet hole in my walls, so help you God!" she snarled and ran up the stairs that John had gone up shortly before.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

After what seemed like an eternity, Irene caught up to John Watson and his two escorts. Just as John indicated with a nod of his head to one of his companions that he should open the door to room eleven (or break it down, God forbid), she caught her breath enough to call his name.

 

"Mr Watson!"

 

John looked up, but his expression appeared to be anything other than reassuring. Still, she continued her approach. At least the other man had paused and not done anything to the door. Yet.

 

"Mr Watson... if you'd like to follow me down to the lounge, I'll make sure that Sherlock is ready to see you in five minutes," she suggested diplomatically.

 

John turned away, back toward the man standing closest to the door to the room. "Dave," he said tilting his head toward the door.

 

"Doc! Please," Irene blurted out. "I have a very important guest in there – please don't make trouble! You don't want to ruin me, do you?" She held her breath as she waited for his answer. The man whom John Watson had called 'Dave' still hadn't moved into action, and Irene was already feeling hopeful until the mob boss blinked slowly and turned to her, causing her budding joy to dry up like so much dust.

 

His eyes were flat and filled with a murderous chill. "Your concerns are completely baseless, Miss Adler. Glendale's on my paylist, along with half of Scotland Yard. And now... get out of my way, or I'll be forced to ask Naresh to deal with you."

 

The other man standing next to Dave cracked his knuckles casually.

 

Irene promptly took a step back, trying to control her shaking hands.

 

John's gaze slid past her as if she'd never existed. Then he said with deadly calm: "Dave. Open that fucking door. _Now_."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Just as the door flew open, Mr Glendale said, "Until I'm ready for the second round..." No one would ever know how that sentence was supposed to end, for the words froze in Glendale's throat at the sight of John Watson.

 

John took in every detail of the tableau spread out before him.

 

The naked union boss, Glendale – the right arm, raised in preparation to strike – the right hand, firmly clasped around a riding crop – the articles of clothing scattered across the floor – and... Sherlock.

 

Sherlock, naked and bound to the bondage bench, and only now turning his head toward the door to see who had caused the disturbance.

 

Sherlock, whose eyes widened in surprise and whose features were strangely distorted by the rubber ball gag.

 

Sherlock, whose back was decorated with white splashes of semen.

 

A red haze rose before John's eyes, clouding not only his senses but also his ability to think clearly.

 

"Doc Watson..." Glendale stuttered.

 

"Get him out," John ordered his men. It sounded like a wolf snarling.

 

"But- but..." Glendale whimpered as Dave and Naresh went over to him and frogmarched him roughly out of the room.

 

"No more interruptions!" John barked, not sparing so much as a glance for his men. He knew his orders would be carried out.

 

Incomprehensible sounds came from Sherlock's mouth, and he tugged at his bonds as John came closer, stopping behind his spread legs.

 

"I hope for your sake that your fun house slide is still greased," John said coldly. "If not... too bad."

 

Then Sherlock heard clothing hitting the floor and a zip being opened. His buttocks were pulled roughly apart with cold hands. A fleeting swipe over his anus, and then...

 

Tears shot into Sherlock's eyes at the tearing pain that followed the relentless pressure. He wanted to scream, but the gag dampened every sound that emerged from his throat and made it unrecognisable. Hot tears ran down his cheeks, mixed with the spit on his chin and dripped onto the floor. Merciless fingers clamped down on his hips and then... Sherlock held his breath automatically during the first several agonising thrusts.

 

He pulled on his bonds one more time before admitting defeat. There was nothing he could have done.

 

After a while, the worst thing was no longer the fact that John was violating him, but that his body was betraying him.

 

Sherlock knew, logically, that what was going on – what was happening to _him_ – was wrong, _wrong_ , WRONG. And yet his body interpreted the act in its own way, reacting to the pain and the rough stimulation in the only way it knew how to: with arousal.

 

The conflicting emotions seized hold of Sherlock, and he felt himself torn between the two extremes of _'It's hot because it's John'_ and _'You didn't give him permission, so it's rape.'_

 

And lurking beneath all of that was the disturbing question: _'How can something so wrong feel so good?'_

 

Sherlock felt light-headed and had to fight against the nausea rising in his stomach. As long as he didn't vomit now ... that might not end very well with the gag in his mouth ... a cold sweat broke out on his forehead, while his stupid body got an erection. It was then that Sherlock realised with a chilling clarity that, should John keep going long enough, it was highly probable that he would come like this. Without his penis being stimulated.

 

The shame threatened to overwhelm him, and all of a sudden it was just like back at the first university he'd gone to...

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_Sherlock stood outside one corner of the rambling university building, smoking a cigarette. The cold wind – a harbinger of the approaching autumn – had prompted him to turn up the collar of his jeans jacket, even though he was additionally sheltered here behind the covered area where students and instructors parked their bicycles._

_A week had passed since he overheard the conversation between Anderson and an unknown fellow student in the library. Two days later, he'd found out the name of the person Anderson had been talking to when a tow-headed, bull-necked fellow approached him, introduced himself as Paul Higgins, and babbled some inane nonsense that had culminated in a shameless invitation. Sherlock hadn't bothered with a reply; he'd simply turned around and left without a word. He'd only listened to Higgins blather on out of curiosity over whether he'd really ask him to perform sexual acts._

 

_Anderson's gossip about him still smarted, but at least the talk behind his back hadn't got worse, which was some kind of comfort. Small comfort, perhaps, but at least he wasn't being denounced as the school's gay slut. He could live with the disparaging, wondering looks._

_There was no more than a small butt left of his cigarette, and he was wondering whether he should light another one when Anderson came around the corner, his hands buried nonchalantly in his pockets and a triumphant grin on his face._

_"Hello, pretty boy," Anderson greeted him once he was close enough._

_Sherlock would have liked nothing better than to vomit on the spot. What in the world had got into him that time to make him go out with this idiot? How could he have been so stupid as to fall for this schmuck?_

 

_"What do you want?" he asked coldly. He would have left, but Anderson was blocking his path and Sherlock didn't feel like touching him to push him aside._

_Anderson licked his lips and snagged the cigarette he had stuck behind his right ear; he didn't put it in his mouth, though._

_"I heard you blew Higgins off."_

_"So?" Sherlock retorted impatiently._

_"Oh, nothing," Anderson said, now slipping the cigarette between his lips. He didn't light it yet, instead letting it droop from the left-hand corner of his mouth. Probably an attempt to appear cool. The effort was completely wasted on Sherlock. He raised an eyebrow._

_"I was just thinking..." Anderson went on, "that means you probably don't have any plans for tomorrow evening..." He took so long to make his proposal that Sherlock almost exploded._

_"And you thought what?" Sherlock snarled at him. "That the two of us might go on a date?!"_

 

_Anderson wrinkled his forehead and took the cigarette out of his mouth._

_"Well, not exactly a date. But we could go up to my room ... and have a little fun... I got a bottle of wine." He reached out with his hand, trying to touch Sherlock's face, but Sherlock flinched back indignantly._

_"Do you really think that bottom-shelf plonk you bought for 1.99 at the A & P will make me suck you off?" Sherlock retorted acidly. "Go find someone else to explore your latent homosexual tendencies with!" Sherlock overcame his disgust at touching Anderson and shoved him roughly to one side._

 

_But just as he wanted to pass him, Anderson's hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. Sherlock felt himself whirled around until his back slammed into the wall of the campus building. The force of the impact knocked the air out of his lungs, and he felt light-headed for a moment. That moment was long enough for Anderson to ram his knee into Sherlock's stomach so hard that Sherlock sank to his knees on the ground in front of him. His arms slung themselves protectively around his midsection and he wheezed, frantic. He barely registered what was happening when Anderson yanked on his hair, pulling his head up, but he did hear him hiss: "That wasn't the deal, my friend." Then he felt something warm and moist pushing against his partially open mouth as he gasped for air._

_"Open up, you arsewipe!" Anderson whispered harshly, yanking harder on Sherlock's hair to make his point clear._

 

_The pain drove tears to Sherlock's eyes, but it also created a moment of clarity. He saw Anderson's trousers gaping open in front of him and understood that what he felt on his lips must be Anderson's penis. Sherlock tried twisting his head away, but Anderson's grip was so firm and unyielding that a fresh wave of pain exploded in his scalp, shooting outward to the rest of his body. Sherlock realised in horror that the pain was causing a distinct sensation of arousal between his legs._

_'No, no, no,' Sherlock thought frantically, rearing up against the hold on his hair until he was able to lean his head back far enough to close his mouth. Again, the pain reverberated in the form of a lust-filled throbbing between his legs._

_"You think you're pretty clever, don't you," Anderson growled, smearing his member across Sherlock's mouth, nose, and chin. Sherlock kept his mouth clamped shut and raised his hands to push Anderson away, but Anderson must have anticipated that, because as soon as Sherlock made contact with him, Anderson pulled his right foot back and kicked him between the legs._

_Sherlock collapsed in pain, but his body continued to interpret the signals in the wrong way, because when Anderson pulled him up by the hair again, Sherlock felt his dick was already half hard._

 

_The shame threatened to overwhelm him. He was sick and cold and so horribly aroused..._

_He squeezed his eyes shut, didn't want to watch Anderson rubbing his erection with his free hand. It was enough to have to hear it. The slippery head kept bumping against his mouth, but he kept it shut up as tight as a clam. He heard Anderson swear, and then he felt something warm and wet splatter against his cheek and nose._

_It was over._

_He heard Anderson panting, then the hand released his hair and Sherlock fell back against the wall behind him. Anderson kicked him one more time in the stomach - albeit not very hard - hurled one last 'dirty faggot' at him and then, finally, his footsteps receded._

_Sherlock was alone. He kept his eyes closed anyway. His hands wandered down between his legs of their own accord, where they felt the firm bulge underneath his jeans. Tears ran freely down his cheeks._

_What the hell was wrong with him?_

 

_It took all of his willpower to take his hands off himself, open his eyes, wipe the semen and tears off his face with a tissue, get up, and crawl back to his room like a wounded animal._

_He lay down on his bed with his clothes on and stared at the ceiling. What was wrong with him? What kind of pervert was he? How could he be aroused by the fact that he'd virtually been raped?_

_That night, he got himself off three times, each time crying his eyes out afterwards. But his arousal and the remnants of the pain he'd experienced were too great to ignore. Again and again, he fell victim to temptation until he finally drifted into an uneasy sleep sometime near dawn._

_When he woke up, he rang Mycroft – something he generally avoided like the devil avoids holy water – and told him to find a place for him at another university and to organise a martial arts instructor._

_He never wanted to be in a situation like that again, helpless and at someone else's mercy._

_Three days later, he moved into his room at the new university. He wanted to leave everything behind and not look back. But the self-loathing haunted him like a second shadow, even here in the new environment._

 

_Alcohol muted the worst of his doubts whenever he started asking himself, 'Why did I let it get that far? Why didn't I put up more of a defence? Why... why... why... Why am I like this?'_

_It didn't take long, though, for the alcohol to stop helping. Through a twist of fate, Sherlock met a dealer not long afterwards, and the cocaine – which he'd already learned to appreciate during his days at college - made his life ... if not worth living, then at least halfway bearable. He used to just snort it, but now his dealer got him into injecting it too. From that moment on, Sherlock preferred that method of delivery over all others. The pinch of the needle gave him a relief that was only outstripped by what he got from the drug._

_It took a long time for him to accept that humiliation and pain could induce desire and pleasure in him, under certain circumstances._

 

_It took even longer for him not to be ashamed of his preferences._

_Once he reached that point, he realised that even though he did want to be humiliated and beaten, he also wanted to be respected, valued, and loved. But he barely had time to complete that thought before a bitter laugh rose in his throat. Loved ... he might as well wish for the moon! He knew he wasn't lovable, and didn't know how to make himself approachable for others. His brother was the best example of that._

_He also knew that he wasn't very good-looking, or even cute. Not even his relatives thought so. They had only said nice things about his outward appearance to please his father, who was the richest and most respected member of the whole boiling._

_He didn't want to think about his mother. He felt guilty, because his memories of her were fading more the older he got. If only he had some memento of her... a photograph, a lock of hair, a piece of jewellery... anything. But there was nothing. When she died, he'd been too young to think of asking for something to remember her by – and later, when he was old enough to want it, he'd already understood that his mother was persona non grata in the Holmes household, and it was better not to mention her name at all. Presumably everything had already been destroyed, lost, sold, or donated to charity by that time anyway._

_Memories of his father were painful as well. Of course parents always thought their own children were beautiful ... but in the end, that was nothing but a trick of evolution in order to ensure that the child was protected and that the species would survive._

_He understood that his desire for compliments and recognition only ended up making him vulnerable and weak. He wasn't going to make that mistake anymore._

_Love, respect, and esteem were three things he could delete from his wishlist forever. He was apparently not cut out for that kind of happiness. But he did maintain a slim hope that he might find someone, some day, who would not only desire and beat him, but who would also be a little bit nice to him – at least once in a while._

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

John tensed and gasped. Then he jerked back out of Sherlock's body and took an unsteady step to one side.

 

Sherlock let his head hang down, silently grateful. John had climaxed, but he himself hadn't come. Thank God he'd been spared that final humiliation. He probably couldn't have got over that without cocaine.

 

"Guess there wasn't any lube left in there," John said, without emotion. "Tough. So it hurt a little. You like that kind of thing anyway."

 

Physically and mentally drained, Sherlock turned his head so that he could see John in the corner of one eye, doing up his trousers. John's semen dripped out of his hole and ran in a viscous trickle down the inside of his legs. His penis twitched half-heartedly, and Sherlock felt sick again.

 

"All right..." John said, his voice still marked by a detached chill. "I think that's enough for now." He came closer and released the bonds from Sherlock's wrists. Then he went around the bench and opened the cuffs on his ankles. Sherlock remained where he was, only moving to take the gag out of his mouth.

 

But as soon as he was completely free, everything happened very fast. Before John realised what was going on, his arms were being twisted back painfully, his fingers gripped in a crushing hold, and everything flipped over.

 

When he was able to distinguish top from bottom again, he was lying on his back on the bed, his ribs and shoulder sockets hurting like hell. He tried to sit up, but a fist that seemed to come out of nowhere slammed into his chin, and he collapsed back onto the mattress.

 

"Fuck," he swore out loud, pulled out his gun from the shoulder holster in a smooth, well-practised motion, and pointed it at his attacker.

 

Sherlock was standing at the foot of the bed, as naked as the day he was born, quivering with barely controlled rage.

 

"If you ever do that _again_..." His voice had assumed a dark, threatening tone. "If you ever do that **_to me again_** – you will never see me again."

 

John wasn't quite in possession of all his senses yet – fury still clouded his vision. Still, he registered how glorious Sherlock's anger looked on him, and how fearlessly he stared down the barrel of the gun.

 

 _'Good,'_ John thought to himself, grinding his teeth. _'Let's see if this teaches him a little respect.'_ With a loud click, he took the safety off the gun.

 

Sherlock saw John's finger move, heard the click, and knew what that meant. And yet his only reaction was to say in a flat tone, "Go ahead and shoot!"

 

The stoic calmness emanating from Sherlock knocked John for a loop.

 

"Why the hell aren't you scared?!" he roared at him.

 

How different things had been when he'd had to get rid of his last sexual plaything, José. The moment José had realised his final hour had arrived, he'd started to whine and pissed his pants with fear. It had been a pathetic display of cowardice. Not Sherlock, who was still standing there as solid as a rock.

 

At that moment – a moment which might turn out to be his last - without conscious thought, without knowing why, Sherlock's mind turned back to his childhood. Back to Mrs Hudson. Sometimes, when she'd had a bit of time, she'd read him a fairy tale or tell him a story. One particular sentence came to him with perfect clarity: _'There's always something better than death.'_ That was no longer true for him. And yet, even following an accidental overdose and a horrendous hospital stay, he'd never summoned the courage to end his life by his own hand.

 

"If you're going to shoot, then do it," Sherlock said with a composure that even he found to be surreal. "We'll see each other again in hell either way. What should I be afraid of?"

 

"You deserve it, you son of a bitch!" John swore. "No one fucks around behind my back and gets away with it!"

 

The accusation shook at the foundations of Sherlock's sense of peace. "I didn't fuck around behind your back!" he shouted, shooting a flaming glare in John's direction.

 

"Oh no?!" John laughed in mock amusement. "What do you call it then?"

 

"Working!" Sherlock yelled. "I call it WORKING!" But if he'd thought the logic of his response would make John see reason, he had another think coming.

 

"I don't care what you call it," John growled. "You cheated me, you bastard! Your arse belongs to me! No one else!"

 

"Is that so?!" Sherlock yelled back angrily. "Nice of you to let me know – you never said a word about me belonging to you!"

 

John was speechless for a moment. That response came as such a surprise he didn't know what else to say. Sherlock was right. He'd never gone to the trouble – or even mentioned – that he wanted to have Sherlock for himself. It simply hadn't occurred to him.

 

When he realised that, he felt reality slowly returning to his brain and sinking into his body. He was dumbfounded to find he was holding something in his hand. When he saw it was his own loaded gun with the safety off – and that it was aimed at Sherlock – he was horrified at himself.

 

He wet his lips to cover his silence and horror, before saying, "All right... fine. We can fix that. If that's what you want..." He put the safety back on his gun, as if in afterthought, and returned it to his shoulder holster. Then he slid off the bed and stood up. "I'll go right down to Miss Adler and take care of it." He walked past Sherlock, but Sherlock grabbed him and stopped him. The adrenaline was still pumping through John's veins like mad, and the unexpected disturbance was enough to cause his anger to ignite again.

 

"What are you doing?!" he demanded indignantly.

 

Sherlock looked away before raising his eyes to meet John's with an unusually sober expression.

 

"It's not about what I want. It's about what _you_ want. I don't want you to go to her simply as a favour to _me_. I want..." His voice dropped away, and he looked away again before continuing softly, "I want you to want it too."

 

John recognised the words as the same ones he'd spoken so long ago, at their first meeting. They touched him in a peculiar way, a way he couldn't quite categorise.

 

"Don't worry," John replied, deliberately gruff, in order not to be suspected of going soft. "I wouldn't do you a favour unless... But fine. If I have to pay Miss Adler even more to make sure your arse is reserved for me, that's fine by me. One less thing to worry about."

 

"Good. Then go and take care of it," Sherlock said and let him go, although he still didn't look at him. "The whole upset was for nothing anyway," he continued, sounding so hesitant that John's curiosity was aroused.

 

"Nothing?" he pressed.

 

Sherlock nodded with a hint of reluctance, as if he didn't want to share the information.

 

"Yes," he said softly and somewhat grudgingly. "My arse has only ever belonged to you."

 

That was so unexpected that John's tongue stumbled over the next question. "Since- since when?"

 

"From the start," Sherlock answered, glancing at John over his shoulder. A shy, awkward smile appeared on his face.

 

John tried to assimilate that information with what he'd seen earlier.

 

"But you... there was semen on your back," he cried.

 

"Of course there was semen!" Sherlock retorted with a somewhat irritated sigh, finally turning around to face John. "He masturbated and ejaculated onto my back. That's all."

 

John's brain still refused to process what he was hearing in a way that would make sense. It couldn't be that...

 

"But you must have had other customers," John objected. "They didn't all just jerk off on you!"

 

Sherlock was possessed of the audacity to actually roll his eyes before answering. "Of course not. You do recall my speciality? Blowjobs? That's what most of them wanted – the rest were happy with a handjob. Once in a while someone wanted a spanking. That's it," he concluded with a shrug.

 

It was only now that John fully comprehended what he'd committed in this room. The force of the realisation made him stagger.

 

"Oh God..." he stammered, sinking back onto the bed with a groan. "I... I made you..." His tongue and his vocal cords both refused to cooperate in naming the monstrosity he'd committed. He sat there, his elbows on his knees and his forehead supported in the palms of both hands, staring at the floor in disbelief.

 

"What?!" Sherlock exclaimed, sounding both surprised and derisive at the same time. "You can do it but you can't say it?" When John shook his head without saying anything, Sherlock went on dryly, "Yes – you raped me. There's no sense in trying to pretty it up."

 

John pressed the heels of his hands against his eye sockets. "Oh God... I know I'm no saint, and my hands are far from clean ... but I've never sunk this low. Never."

 

"There's a first time for everything," Sherlock remarked flatly.

 

John jerked his head up and looked at Sherlock, aghast. "How can you be so calm? I ... What I did..."

 

"You're not going to go making a big deal out of it now, are you?" Sherlock interrupted him with mild surprise. "Entirely unnecessary."

 

John felt the whole world had gone topsy-turvy. "How can you be so... it's NOT unnecessary!" he countered vehemently, jumping up off the bed.

 

"Yes, it is," Sherlock insisted. Then he hesitated briefly, giving John a once-over before continuing: "Don't get me wrong. If you ever do that again, I'll break every bone in your body, one at a time." The threat, spoken in an even voice, was much more effective than any irate screams, and John could virtually feel, physically, how attracted he was by the unexpected menace emanating from Sherlock. Just another one of his bad habits. Danger was – and would always be – a potent stimulant for him. And it was for that reason that Sherlock's next words took a while to penetrate his consciousness.

 

"But it's just a body ... just a shell... it's not me, it's merely a relatively unimportant vessel ... a means to an end. _Transport_ , if you will. Believe me, if I didn't see it like that, I'd be completely out of my depth in this business."

 

John looked Sherlock over carefully after that little speech. Sherlock returned his gaze unabashedly, like a man who had nothing to hide. And yet John knew that look – that all too open look – from countless previous times when people had presented bald-faced lies to him.

 

And so he said, "You're lying," plain and simple. He was satisfied to see that Sherlock's first reaction was to bite his lower lip nervously before promptly letting it go again.

 

"Not really," Sherlock countered evasively. "My body has never been especially important to me. Not until..." Sherlock cut himself off and gnawed on his lip again. Should he? Should he go so far out on a limb and tell John that everything had changed since _he'_ d bought his virginity? Good God, it was John! Of course he could tell him. John – who had always been kind to him. John, who had shown him what ecstasy truly meant. John, who ... had just violated him ... John, who had almost shot him... Perhaps it would actually be wiser not to confide in this man, but to fear him. But no matter how deep Sherlock searched within himself, he couldn't find any fear. John was a dangerous man – very dangerous, in fact – and even though it was insane, Sherlock found that extremely sexy and attractive. Wasn't John exactly what he'd always secretly dreamt of? Someone who beat him and was a little bit nice to him once in a while? Now he had all of that – and? Was he happy? No, he wasn't. Sherlock was troubled to admit that now that he had everything that had seemed so far out of reach before, it simply wasn't enough.

 

"Not until..." John repeated in an inquisitive tone, prompting Sherlock with a look.

 

"Not until you put your mark on me," Sherlock completed his sentence calmly.

 

Had he said too much? Too little? Would John understand what those – wholly inadequate - words implied? He searched John's face attentively for some clue but found nothing. Somewhat discouraged, he let his shoulders slump. At least he hadn't made things worse.

 

After several moments of silence, John pointed at the bed and said gruffly, "Lie down."

 

Sherlock was surprised to discover apprehension and arousal prickling through his body in equal measures, leaving an unpleasant, expectant feeling in his stomach. Did John really want to...? It would hurt, that much was certain. Although he was only experiencing moderate pain at the moment, Sherlock was fully aware that a second round would be unbearable. Still, his heart was beating wildly and the emotional contradiction made him feel light-headed. He swallowed over a dry throat. Was he going to let John do it? Everything in him screamed to submit, to surrender to John – yet he remained rooted to the spot and didn't move an inch.

 

"Why?" he finally asked. "What for?" Scenarios of how John would simply take what he wanted from him played themselves out in a disturbing dance of colour in his mind's eye. Would John leave if he didn't comply with every single one of his orders and desires? Was he even capable of living a life without John anymore?

 

A little unsurely, Sherlock bided his time, watching and waiting for John's reaction to his question (and to his indirect refusal to obey an order), and found to his astonishment that anger and shame were fighting for control over John's face. But the anger wasn't directed at Sherlock. That was clear. Was John actually angry at himself? Good gracious, whatever for?

 

"Not for _that_!" John declared firmly, his cheeks betraying a faint flush. "What do you think of me? No, never mind," he retracted his question promptly, brushing it away with a wave of his hand. "Don't say it. Otherwise I might end up shooting you after all, and that would only confirm your opinion." He scraped his hand down his face, appearing very tired all of a sudden. "Lie down so I can take a look at you. I want to know how much damage I did." He pointed at the bed.

 

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders.

 

"Fine, if you want," he acquiesced unenthusiastically, expressing quite clearly what he thought of all the fuss. He lay down on his stomach and spread his legs. He flinched a little when John touched him, stretched his skin and inserted a finger into him. John assumed the flinching was due to soreness, but it was really because Sherlock was surprised at how gentle John's touch could be. Not that John always treated him roughly or abused him, but any gentleness had always served the purpose of stimulating Sherlock in preparation for the coming onslaught of pleasure. For the first time, that context was completely missing, and Sherlock didn't know what to think of the fact that John could be gentle even without the prospect of imminent sex.

 

"All right... everything looks fine," John said after a short while, when he'd given Sherlock as careful and as thorough an examination as he could in the circumstances. "Maybe you should use some ointment for the next few days. Something with witch hazel should be good... Do you have anything?"

 

Sherlock turned onto his side and rested his head on one hand as his eyes slid over John, who was still standing with one knee on the bed.

 

"Yes, I believe so," he replied, without any great interest, before addressing the issue that he was itching to have taken care of. "Will you _now_ go to Miss Adler and take care of everything?"

 

"Well... I..." Lost in thought, John wiped his fingers clean on a tissue and stood up. But no sooner was he balanced on both legs again than he stopped and stared off into the distance.

 

His silence lasted so long that Sherlock began to worry. He was about to sit up and say something to snap John out of his trance when a jolt seemed to go through John's body, and his eyes bored into Sherlock's with a shocking intensity.

 

"Oh God! I didn't even use a condom!" It was probably meant to come out as a shout, but little more than a hoarse whisper escaped John's lips. His utter horror was inscribed all over his face.

 

Sherlock, however, was completely unimpressed by the outburst. He merely raised an eyebrow and asked, irritated, "Should I prepare for another meltdown?"

 

John stared at him, gaping.

 

"I... I don't believe it! You..."

 

"I'm healthy!" Sherlock said to put an end to any further panic. "After you straightened me out that one time, I had a test done. Everything's fine. And I've only engaged in _safe_ _sex_ since. It couldn't possibly get any _safer_ ," he added in a dark mutter. But his logical objection didn't seem to have any effect on John, who continued to stare at him as if he'd taken leave of his senses.

 

"But I might also have infected you..." John pointed out.

 

"You. Infected me." Sherlock raised his eyebrow again. "Right," he remarked sarcastically. "Because given the obsessiveness with which you've used condoms up to now, there's even the remotest chance that you've contracted some sexually transmittable disease. And even if you had... it wouldn't really matter, as you're going to have me exclusively from now on."

 

John shook his head incredulously.

 

"How can you be so cold..."

 

The remark lessened Sherlock's sarcasm somewhat. "I'm not afraid of dying," he said quietly, meeting John's eyes straight on. _At least not if you were the one responsible for it,_ he added silently to himself. He didn't dare speak those words out loud, as even he found them a bit disturbing. Still, it wasn't the thought of an unnatural or untimely death that scared him; rather, it was how _right_ it felt to lay his life in John's hands.

 

John returned Sherlock's gaze steadily, but after a while he cleared his throat and said abruptly, "I'll draw us a bath."

 

Sherlock sighed in annoyance. "I thought you were going to go see Miss... _us_?" he blurted out as soon as he understood what exactly John had just said.

 

"Yes. Us," John answered simply and went into the attached bath which the room was also furnished with.

 

Shortly thereafter, Sherlock heard water running into the tub, and curiosity drove him to follow John. He stopped in the doorway to the bathroom. He felt oddly self-conscious and caught off guard. Why did John want to take a bath with him all of a sudden, and why was John filling the tub himself?

 

John's jacket and shoulder holster were already lying on the floor. John himself was standing bent over the bathtub, checking the temperature of the water coming out of the faucet with one hand.

 

"You really want to take a bath with me?" Sherlock asked, confused.

 

"Yes," John said without looking up.

 

All of a sudden, Sherlock thought he understood what was going on. A smile stole across his face. "Is this your way of apologising?"

 

John tossed him a quick look over his shoulder, straightened up, and opened the flies of his trousers.

 

A short while later, both of them were lying in the bathtub, which – like all of the bathtubs in Irene Adler's establishment – was big enough for two. Sherlock was seated between John's legs, his back resting against the other man's chest.

 

Sherlock stared at the surface of the clear water, lost in thought.

 

"No bubbles?" He was still trying to understand what was going on here. It must be something quite basic, perhaps even something romantic. But as Sherlock had no experience with romance, the entire situation was a mystery to him. An explanation or even an insight remained beyond his grasp.

 

"There's too much perfume in the stuff you've got in here," John said neutrally. Sherlock could feel John's mouth moving against his hair as he spoke. "Might have made it... burn."

 

The words were ambiguous, but Sherlock nevertheless understood their intention.

 

"I've never seen you naked before," Sherlock mentioned, apropos of nothing.

 

That was something which had bothered him since he watched John undress. That had never happened before, and Sherlock didn't understand it either. He also didn't understand why he'd never noticed it before. Or at least, he'd never consciously thought about it. It wasn't unusual for clients not to disrobe entirely. Some did, some didn't. Sherlock ran back through all of John's visits in his mind. It was true, he'd never been completely unclothed before. Every time, he'd always kept at least one or two articles of clothing on. Sherlock knew that John hated the sight of the scar on his shoulder and didn't like to show it... but hadn't Sherlock made it clear enough that he didn't see the scar as a disfigurement? Or was the reason entirely different? Was it that John wore his clothes as a kind of armour? Is that why he'd never lowered his guard (or his trousers), in order to keep himself from being hurt? Sherlock shook his head to himself. John? Not John. John was strong. John wasn't afraid of anything. He should stop jumping to conclusions about others based on himself. There was nothing vulnerable about John.

 

"No? Could be," John replied offhand.

 

"It's true," Sherlock insisted with the obstinacy of a young child. "You always kept something on. Your shirt... or your trousers. Sometimes you didn't take anything off."

 

There was silence for the space of several moments.

 

"What was that before?" John asked, instead of following up on Sherlock's question. "Judo?"

 

"Baritsu. A Japanese martial art. It unifies several different techniques. I took it up when I was at university," Sherlock answered tonelessly.

 

The meaning of the abrupt change of topic was clear, even to Sherlock. John didn't want to talk about it. Sherlock had overstepped a line, quite without meaning to. He'd brought up a taboo topic, and he began to withdraw into himself. In his experience, rejection was the next step that followed such misconduct. He held his breath and his posture tensed automatically.

 

But rather than telling him to get out of the bathtub, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's chest in a loose hug. Sherlock's thoughts raced. Why wasn't John acting in accordance with Sherlock's earlier experiences? Would he ever understand John? Did all of this mean that John actually was susceptible to being hurt? He'd cut off his own hand before hurting him! But ... what would happen if he – as was his wont – made a thoughtless remark? What if his mouth raced ahead of his brain? What then? Sherlock nestled down carefully into John's embrace, feeling a bit distressed and discouraged, only to register with relief how John's arms tightened around him.

 

Sherlock understood at that moment that John might be the only one of them who bore a visible scar on his body. But in regards to unmentionable, invisible scars on the soul... that was something both of them had more than enough experience with.

 

Silence fell over the two men again while the water in the bath slowly cooled.

 

"I'll go talk to Miss Adler right afterwards," John murmured into Sherlock's wet curls after what seemed like an eternity.

 

"Thank you," Sherlock whispered back. It was the first time in a long time that he had used those words. They felt odd in his mouth.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

**_To be continued..._ **

****

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Piccies!

<http://lorelei-lee.tumblr.com/post/117168242924/teaser-for-deflowered-directors-cut>

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay – if you're reading this then you made it all the way to the end and you want some explanation (or you cheated and scrolled down). 
> 
> Before you tar and feather me – I don't want to downplay rape and sexual assault in any way. They are crimes and they will always be crimes.
> 
> I didn't just write that scene because of some cheap play for attention. It's not necessarily a key scene, but it's going to be important for the course of the story for several reasons, and will be mentioned several more times.
> 
> "My" Sherlock is definitely a pretty screwed up character. As he said himself (with the words I put in his mouth): his body really isn't that important to him. Whatever happens with it is of secondary importance. When his body is damaged, he can deal with it pretty well. Damage to his psyche is something else altogether. But here too, he has protective mechanisms in place so as not to make himself too vulnerable. What's different is that he takes psychological damage much more to heart than he does physical damage.
> 
> How did I even come up with the idea for that scene?
> 
> Several years ago, I read an article in a magazine about women and submissiveness and S & M. Among other things, one woman was interviewed who was a psychotherapist or in a self-help group or something (I don't recall exactly, unfortunately), and this women said that there are women who cling to their relationships with their violent partners even though they suffer from the psychological abuse because they like the rough sex. Women like that sometimes don't know how to express that desire, or they have the feeling that something is wrong with them and never even consider that they might be better off in a loving S & M relationship than in a relationship filled with domestic abuse.
> 
> I don't want to say at all that every 'No' is really a 'Yes' underneath, or that a lack of overtly expressed permission is a 'Yes' either. I also don't want to side with those people who say, 'you want it too'. That's not my intention at all. It has to be mutual. Anything else is wrong. And I'm sure that for every woman like the one in that article, there are a hundred others who don't fit that pattern.
> 
> But I just thought of that article when I decided to try writing this scene.
> 
> If you have any other thoughts you'd like to share, please send me an email: Lorelei_Lee@web.de.


	14. Reflections

**Chapter 14: Reflections**

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

After their bath, John left Sherlock in the room and sent Dave and Naresh, who had been guarding the hallway and the door, back to the car to wait for him.

 

In answer to the question, "What about you, boss?" John replied, "I have some business to discuss with Miss Adler. I'll be right there."

 

Once he was alone, John directed his steps down to the large lounge that served as the main reception area. With every step he took, he distanced himself not only physically but mentally from the events of the past couple of hours. Now was not the right time to think about them. Right now, he needed to negotiate with Irene Adler, and he wasn't about to let her get the better of him. In order to assure that, he needed to have all his faculties in full working order. He seized hold of all the thoughts and emotions regarding the recent incident and shoved them into a dark, dark corner of his brain.

 

A quick check of his watch told him that it was still early in the evening, although it seemed the first few guests had already arrived, judging by the laughter and snatches of chatter drifting up the stairs. Miss Adler would be in the lounge with her guests, entertaining them and greeting any new arrivals.

 

John considered Irene Adler to be a tough businesswoman who would keep her doors open and her business running even if the world were falling to pieces around them. Therefore, the chances of her cowering in her office until he left were quite low. And he was right – when he entered the lounge where several guests and employees were already relaxing, he found Miss Adler standing right next to the door. Her smile, however, appeared artificial, not quite as relaxed and superior as usual. When her eyes lit on him, her fingers clenched briefly around the stem of the champagne glass in her hand, but there were no other outward signs of the emotions his presence triggered in her.

 

Her poise commanded a certain respect from John – he had to hand it to her: she really had herself under control.

 

"Well?" she asked once he was standing beside her. "I didn't hear any shots. Did you strangle him?" There was a certain fatalistic undertone to her words.

 

"Why should I have?" John replied impassively – although with a hint of interest.

 

"You wouldn't be the first to be tempted with thoughts of murder in Sherlock's presence," Irene murmured, half to herself.

 

"Good," John declared with a blinding smile. "Then you'll give me exclusive access to him – we wouldn't want one of your other guests to have to deal with a murder charge, now would we?"

 

Something flashed in her eyes, and the muscles around her mouth relaxed a bit. She was apparently relieved that Sherlock was still alive.

 

"You're too good to me, Doc," she purred, almost teasing him. "You could have had it that way all along without making so much trouble for me."

 

John had to admit she was right, and inclined his head slightly as a sign of his agreement. Her impertinence in pointing out his error didn't irritate him all that much. As long as he wasn't driven into a corner, he was generally able to control his temper. An exchange of blows was always part of this type of discussion, and John was used to dealing with needling comments. Also, she was completely right, and he wasn't in the habit of punishing people who had the courage to tell him the truth to his face.

 

Yes, he could have had it that way all along. Right from the beginning. Why hadn't he thought of it before?

 

"Did Glendale give you any more trouble?" he inquired, deliberately not pursuing her remark.

 

"No," she admitted somewhat grudgingly. "The only problem was finding clothes for him. His things were still in the room ... but other than that, he was as gentle as a lamb." She pursed her lips, waiting for his response.

 

"He'd better be," John replied. "He's expensive enough."

 

Irene looked him over with renewed interest. "Why am I not on your payroll yet, Doc? I'd think it would be a lucrative business."

 

A broad, dangerous smile distorted John's lips. "That's easy, sweetheart... you're of no use to me."

 

"Oh... I don't know..." She winked at him, both flirting and challenging. "I could still keep Sherlock away from you." She took a sip of her champagne.

 

John's grin became wider, and he took note of the way Irene's eyelids began to flutter nervously.

 

"You wouldn't," he said quietly. "You're not that stupid."

 

"No, I'm not," Irene agreed calmly and set her champagne glass down. "If you'll come with me, we can sort out the details better in my office."

 

John acquiesced with a smile and followed. The small talk was done with.

 

Irene led him to her office, closed the door behind them, and offered him a seat in the chair across from her desk while she took the one behind her desk.

 

"So you'd like to have Sherlock all to yourself?" she began, and when John nodded, she continued: "Then all that's left to discuss is the price." She named a sum and John laughed.

 

"That's very funny, Miss Adler," he remarked cheerfully. "I could pay for an entire harem with that."

 

"I don't tend to make jokes when it comes to money," Irene chastised him. "Don't forget, it will mean a huge loss of income for me if Sherlock is reserved just for you."

 

John gave her a slightly patronising look, raising both his eyebrows. "Is that so?"

 

"Of course it is," Irene insisted – not entirely truthfully. After all, she'd only scheduled Sherlock for clients on one additional day a week recently. But she didn't need to parade that around in front of Doc Watson. "He's the one employee everyone talks about in the lounge."

 

John noticed that she'd cleverly avoided using the words _'popular'_ or 'in _demand'_.

 

"No doubt in regards to his unfortunate way with words," he countered dryly.

 

A faint blush crept over Irene's cheeks as she realised she'd been caught in her little twisting of the truth.

 

"Fine – what were _you_ thinking then?"

 

When John stated his offer, it was Irene's turn to break out in tinkling laughter. "Oh no," she cried, still laughing. "Not a chance. That doesn't even cover half of what he'd normally bring in for me."

 

John inspected his fingernails with a disturbing smile on his face. "Is that so?" he finally asked, feigning concern. "I wouldn't have thought that little bit of licking and fumbling would command such a high price." He graced Irene with his best shark-toothed grin. "If I were in your shoes, Miss Adler, I'd reconsider how high your losses actually are. Because – like you – I'm not stupid."

 

A sour smile curled Irene's lips. "Ah ha – so Sherlock tattled and told you how he serviced his other clients?"

 

"In his defence, I have to admit that he probably didn't consider the fact that he might be damaging your bottom line in doing so." John took a piece of paper and a pen from her desk, wrote a figure on it, folded the paper in half, and pushed it toward her. Then he leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs lazily. "I know that Sherlock owes you something. He's never told me what – or how much – but I think that amount should be more than enough to erase at least a portion of his debt."

 

Irene gave him a quick, surprised look. It seemed for a moment as if she were going to say something, but her lips remained sealed as she picked up the piece of paper.

 

She stared at the number that was written there for a long time; it exceeded all of her expectations.

 

"Done," she finally said in a steady voice, holding out her hand. He lifted himself out of his chair and shook her hand with a satisfied grin.

 

"All that remain are the conditions," Irene said, full of business-like efficiency – now that the question of the price had been settled to her complete satisfaction, she perked up noticeably.

 

"The ... conditions?" John asked, wrinkling his brow. He was still standing – he'd actually wanted to leave, as he considered the deal done. But now he sat back down.

 

He was met with a puzzled look from the brothel's director, but then her features smoothed out into an expression of neutral professionalism.

 

"Would you like to set up a schedule for regular appointments? Or should he be ready at any time of the day? It might be to your advantage if you ring – say – an hour beforehand, so that we can prepare everything for you. We'll arrange ourselves around you."

 

"Ready at any time?" John echoed. "Twenty-four-seven?" Irene nodded. "But that's not even possible... he'd have to live here on the premises."

 

"He already does," Irene explained obligingly. "It really wouldn't be a problem."

 

John had the feeling that the rug was being pulled out from under his feet, for several reasons. For one thing, he hadn't even considered the practicalities of his new arrangement with Sherlock. In addition, he didn't know what to make of the fact that Sherlock actually lived right here, in this house. Both issues were equally embarrassing. It was embarrassing that Irene had been able to surprise him with these facts, and it was embarrassing that he'd never even thought about what Sherlock's life outside of work must look like.

 

"I'll let you know when I decide," John answered in a last-ditch attempt to cover up the fact that she'd caught him out cold.

 

"Of course," Irene said in a business-like manner, avoiding heaping further embarrassment on him, for which John was secretly grateful.

 

They shook hands and John left the brothel to go to his car.

 

On the ride back, he brooded silently as the euphoria over his successful negotiations with the brothel operator faded into the distance.

 

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Sherlock had waited in the room, pacing back and forth – wearing only a dressing gown – in an attempt to regain control over his nerves and all the emotions that had been stirred up in him.

 

It wasn't until Irene brought him the good news that he retired to his own room.

 

Out of habit, he let the dressing gown slip off his shoulders and went straight into the bathroom.

 

As soon as he set foot in the doorway, however, he remembered that he'd taken a bath with John and was clean – he didn't need to shower, as he usually did after working. He stopped where he was; his routine had been broken, and he didn't know what to do instead.

 

No more guilty conscience toward Irene, who had been paying his way for old times' sake (John had been – judging by the expression on her face – more than generous) ... no other clients anymore ... no more boredom ... just John...

 

Hesitantly, he went over to his bed and sat down on it cross-legged. His hands hung loosely down over his thighs, and the tips of his fingers wandered aimlessly over his penis and scrotum. He closed his eyes and felt for the pressure of John's arms around his chest. Sighing softly, he had to admit there was nothing there. The sensation of that embrace had dissipated, and the echo he fancied he felt was nothing but his imagination.

 

The throbbing pain in his arse, however, wasn't. Sherlock had been used to tuning out pain of all kinds, both physical and psychological, for years. He wasn't always successful in overcoming every kind of hurt solely through the force of his willpower, but today his physical suffering didn't take precedence in his mind; instead, it hovered as a kind of grey background noise at the edge of his consciousness.

 

The much more important question was: what had happened today?

 

Sherlock slowly became aware that he was being punished for something he hadn't even done – that he'd had to pay for something that had been done to John by someone else altogether.

 

John's words suddenly resounded in his head like a gong: _"No one fucks around behind my back and gets away with it!"_

 

That was it! That must be it!

 

_No one..._

 

There must have been others who had cheated on John, who had been unfaithful to him. Sherlock's eyes flickered restlessly behind their closed lids like will-o'-the-wisps in an attempt to filter, combine, and reconcile the information which his brain had stored about John and which was now being presented to him as a fleeting stream of thoughts.

 

John's tendency to view people as his property ... _No one_ ... John's nearly pathological fixation on condoms and safe sex ... John's dislike of being completely exposed ... John's unsuspected vulnerability ... _gets away with it_ ... John, who never raped anyone before ... John, who knew when he was being lied to ... _behind my back_ ... John's sudden outburst of violence...

 

With an exclamation of surprise, Sherlock flung his eyes open and stared into the distance.

 

John didn't have a steady partner!

 

There was no other logical conclusion. John must have been betrayed more than once in the past, and it must have hit him hard every time, as he was a possessive man and _sharing_ was definitely a foreign concept for him. At some point, he must have learned to recognise the signs of disloyalty. That was the reason he always used condoms, in order to protect at least his body from the dangers of a potentially unfaithful partner.

 

Would John do the same thing to someone else that had been done to him? Would John cheat on his partner? With a prostitute, no less?

 

Sherlock shook his head decisively. No, he wouldn't. Of course not.

 

And that meant Sherlock was the only one in John's life at the moment. No competition. No other man. John belonged to _him_ alone, and _he_ belonged to John.

 

A peculiar euphoria spread through his chest, not dissimilar to the _high_ he got from drugs or alcohol. Was this happiness he was feeling? Sherlock didn't really have any points of comparison, but if this was happiness, this feeling that was stealing his breath away, he might just become _addicted_ to it and give up cocaine once and for all.

 

Sherlock closed his eyes with a blissful smile.

 

As he leaned back and his stroking motions on his half-hard penis intensified, he wondered briefly what had happened to those men who had cheated on John.

 

A pleasant shiver rippled down his back as he came to the conclusion that they were probably no longer alive. John was a dangerous man. More dangerous than cocaine, and therefore more attractive to Sherlock.

 

His inauspicious and aberrant tendencies hardly ever bothered Sherlock anymore. Getting involved with John meant playing with fire, and it was just a question of time before he burnt his fingers. But nothing compared to the thrill he got from the game. He felt more alive than ever before, and although he knew that his preferences were anything but normal, he'd never felt as accepted and understood by another person as he did by John.

 

John, who had never looked at him askance, and who was permanently surrounded by the faint aroma of gunpowder, metal, and gun oil.

 

John, who knew how to protect and defend his property... Although Sherlock had always enjoyed his freedom and living independently, he found the idea of defining himself as one of John's _possessions_ – of belonging to just one other person – startlingly attractive. To finally belong somewhere ... to belong to _someone_.

 

With a soft moan, Sherlock spilled over his own hand. The orgasm hadn't been spectacular, but it had been necessary for his mental health. Of course he'd enjoyed the climax, but it hadn't come about solely out of sexual lust; rather, it had also been due to the necessity of putting behind him the unexpected twists of fate the day had brought... and also just a little bit because it had done him good to treat himself to a little tenderness.

 

A short while later, when he was once again able to think clearly, something sprang to the forefront of his mind, something that had been lurking this whole time, waiting for his attention, disquieting and nagging at him, and now it tugged at him until he _couldn't_ ignore it any longer.

 

After everything that had happened and after seeing how much John regretted his actions... was it possible that John's behaviour toward him would change now? That he'd only handle him with proverbial kid gloves from now on?

 

Nervous once again, Sherlock gnawed on his bottom lip.

 

He could deal with anything but _that_!

 

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

As soon as he closed the door to his house behind him, John took off his coat and laid it across the upholstered chair beside the door, just like he always did. Someone would take care of putting it in the closet where it belonged. What did he have house staff for, after all? Well schooled and expensive staff. Staff who didn't stand around and get in his way, and only came out when they were summoned.

 

John let his gaze wander around the entryway, which was indeed very happily empty. His eyes passed over the curved stairway that led up to the first floor, where his private rooms were located. But he turned in the other direction. His bedroom didn't hold much interest for him at the moment. Strangely, he felt the urge to have a hot shower, even though logic told him he was clean enough after his bath with Sherlock. Still, he felt dirty.

 

"And you know exactly why," he murmured out loud to himself.

 

Instead, he went into his office. Once there, he closed the door behind himself and leaned back against it. He hadn't turned on the light, so he now stared into the virtually endless grey that spread out before him. The curtains weren't drawn, and pale moonlight seeped in through the windows. His eyes slowly grew accustomed to the semi-darkness, and he was now able to discern the individual pieces of furniture and items around the room.

 

The bookcases, the leather seating arrangement, his desk...

 

His hands, hanging down at his sides, formed into fists and he beat against the door with them.

 

"Fuck!" he swore softly, squeezing his eyes shut.

 

_What had he been thinking?_

 

‘ _Nothing. As usual,_ ’ his mind whispered to him, less than helpfully.

 

He opened his eyes and stared at the sliver of the moon visible through the window, as if seeking aid there. Why couldn't it at least be a full moon? Then he might have had an explanation for his behaviour. Not a very good one, admittedly, but at least it would be something! But the moon remained uncooperatively in its crescent form, refusing to provide John with an alibi.

 

John took a deep breath in and out. Then, in a sudden fit, he tore his tie from his neck and tugged at the topmost buttons on his shirt. Once he'd succeeded in freeing his neck from its bindings, he felt a bit better. He removed his jacket as well, tossing it in an arc onto one of the leather armchairs, where it landed before sliding gently onto the floor. John registered it without really caring. He took another deep breath. Better. Then he went to his small but well-stocked bar. He had a better and fancier selection of spirits in the lounge and in his private living room, but he didn't feel like leaving his office to walk through the brightly lit entryway. He might even spend all night here.

 

His hand hovered indecisively over the various bottles. His favourite whisky? Or perhaps the expensive French cognac? In the end, he chose the gin. He took out a glass and poured himself a generously measured portion of the clear liquid.

 

He'd always used to drink gin. Not the pricey stuff he could afford now, and which was sloshing quietly around in the glass before him. No, the really cheap stuff that almost made his tongue go numb.

 

Back then... before he'd had money... before he'd made a career with the mob... before his father had thrown him out of the house because John had chucked medical school and his father didn't want to have a _gangster_ for a son... and his mother, who had stood silently by and let it happen ... his mother, who hadn't raised him to be a rapist...

 

John set the glass against his lips, and with a quick flick of his wrist he tossed the gin down. The alcohol burned his throat and ate through his insides. But the gin couldn't cover up or numb the feelings of guilt that burned John's conscience.

 

With grim determination, he poured himself a second glass and drank it down in one draught.

 

It didn't get any better. John closed his eyes and bit his lips.

 

_What had he done?_

 

A bitter laugh cut through the grey silence.

 

As God was his witness – he had worse things on his conscience than rape. John had always been a little tougher than everyone else, and over time he'd become even tougher... he'd had to become tougher. He never would have reached the position he was in now otherwise.

 

And yet... he couldn't just put the day's events behind him.

 

Maybe it was because Sherlock hadn't done anything to deserve such treatment. _Nothing_. Nothing at all! Sherlock hadn't done anything wrong. In fact, he'd been faithful to him – as faithful as he could be, given his circumstances and his job.

 

John ground his teeth.

 

It was his bloody temper! Why did he snap so easily in certain situations?

 

The hand holding the glass trembled slightly. John poured himself a third measure and closed the bottle again. Three drinks were enough. They'd been doubles or triples already anyway. It wasn't easy to say exactly in these low light conditions. But even three or four more drinks wouldn't make any difference. John knew that. He might be drunker, but the guilt would still be there. Just as intense.

 

He turned away from the bar and went over to one of the leather armchairs, his steps heavy. Why was his cold-heartedness abandoning him now, of all times? Why was all of this bothering him so much? Sherlock didn't hold it against him. It couldn't be allowed to happen again, that was all. John let himself drop down into the chair and set the full glass down on the low table in front of him. He rested his elbows on his thighs and folded his hands. Pensively, he watched the weak moonlight refract and reflect in the curve of the glass and the liquid in it.

 

What would be so bad about Sherlock making good on his threat and refusing to ... _receive_ John anymore? Their arrangement hadn't been a long-term one, and even now it had gone much further than John had ever planned on. If it were over, then that was that ... Sherlock would get a nice parting gift – John wasn't going to be stingy over that – and then Sherlock would look around for a new _sugar daddy_ to try and pay off his debt to Miss Adler. And John would also move on and keep an eye out for another way to pass his time. After all, Sherlock wasn't anything more than a prostitute ... they were a dime a dozen on every street corner. What had Mike said so fittingly? _Enjoy it while it lasts._

 

At that point, however, John couldn't keep up the lie any longer. It wasn't possible to find someone like Sherlock on every street corner.

 

Sherlock – the first and only person who had never lied to him ... at least not concerning anything of importance.

 

Sherlock – the first and only person who wasn't afraid of him. Respect? Yes. Fear? No. Not a whit.

 

Sherlock – the first and only person who'd ever knocked him off his feet ... at least since he'd been a boss in the mob.

 

Sherlock – the first and only person who'd looked fearlessly down the barrel of a gun and made threats at the same time.

 

John groaned and ruffled his carefully styled hair with both hands.

 

_What had he done?_

 

Right then, at that moment, the universe finally smiled on John Watson. Before he was forced to focus on that question more thoroughly and stir up his psyche any further, something vibrated in his trouser pocket.

 

The vibration was followed by the ring tone he had reserved for Mike.

 

His nascent emotions turned into anger in the blink of an eye. He fished his phone out of his pocket impatiently, jabbed the answer call button, and shouted without any preamble: "It's all your fault anyway!"

 

The silence on the other end of the line lasted only a fraction of a second before Mike groaned. "What did you do now?!"

 

"Me?! Nothing!" John yelled into the phone. "If you hadn't put this bee in my bonnet I wouldn't be sitting here!"

 

"Here?" The word came out of the speaker in a horrified squeak. "John? Are you... at a police station? All right – no matter what they're accusing you of... I'll get you out! Just sit tight and don't say anything. Do you hear me? Nothing!"

 

John pinched the bridge of his nose between the thumb and forefinger of his free hand.

 

"Calm down, Mike. I haven't been arrested."

 

"Where are you then?!"

 

"At home. Alone. Everything's fine."

 

Mike made an incredulous sound. "I've heard something else entirely. What went down at Adler's place today?"

 

John slammed his hand down on the arm of the chair, upset. "Goddammit! Can't a man even... without everyone knowing about it..." He cut himself off. "Who snitched?" he asked sharply.

 

"That doesn't matter," Mike replied evasively. "What's more important..."

 

"Irene Adler?" John pressed. "No – she'd have to be an idiot. Dave? No, not him either. Bridges? He wasn't even there for half of it, and anyway he knows bloody well which side his bread is buttered on. Naresh?" He heard Mike huff. "So it was Naresh. I should have known. That tosser's the worst gossip I know. Worse than your wife."

 

"Take that back right now!" Mike growled. "Susan is a saint!"

 

John already regretted the words the moment they were spoken, so it didn't take all too much effort to apologise.

 

"Yeah, you're right," he said contritely. "Sorry. I'm not saying that because you snapped at me, though. Susan really is a saint." After brief consideration, he added, "But Naresh is also a fucking squeal."

 

Mike sighed.

 

"He's Indian. More emotional than the average Englishman. He was worried about you."

 

"Load of rubbish," John said gruffly.

 

"'S not rubbish," Mike disagreed. "John... something went down. Is there anything I need to take care of? Pay someone off? John..." he pressed when the silence continued. "What happened?"

 

John exhaled loudly. "Nothing you ..."

 

"...can fix?"

 

"... need to fix," John said almost at the same time, annoyed at how close Mike had come to the reality of the situation with his guess. There really wasn't anything that Mike would be _able_ to fix. This time he was going to have to get the frying pan out of the fire himself. Maybe he should start by doing the right thing for once.

 

"Okay," Mike admitted defeat with a faint sigh. "You didn't kill anyone? No bodies that need to disappear? And I don't have to write out any big cheques?"

 

"No, I didn't kill anyone," John reassured his friend. "There's no body either, but..."

 

"But?" Mike pressed suspiciously.

 

John sighed. "You'll find out anyway when you go through my account statements... I may have spent a bit of money tonight."

 

"A bit?" Mike's ears perked up. "That's sufficiently vague. How many zeroes does that _bit_ have?"

 

When John told him, Mike gasped for air. "You did kill him!" he cried reproachfully. "Nothing else could be that expensive!"

 

"Who are you talking about?" John asked.

 

"You know, that... what was his name? That Adler boy... Sherlock?"

 

"I didn't kill Sherlock," John replied, remaining deliberately calm. "I merely ensured the exclusivity of his services."

 

Mike sucked in a sharp breath. "Whenever you talk toff like that, you have a guilty conscience and you're trying to keep something from me!" he accused John indignantly. "An exclusive contract with a rent boy can't possibly be that expensive. You let Adler pull a fast one on you, or else you messed him up so badly you threw in the doctor's fee."

 

"He didn't want a doctor," John muttered without thinking. "He didn't even want me to..."

 

Mike groaned again. He sounded both appalled and as if he'd expected that answer.

 

"I knew it!" he yelled. "I knew you'd done something! John – I know you're going to hate me for this, but reconsider what I told you about that therapist. I really think..."

 

"Love, faith, and hope are high ideals," John cut him off. "But they don't have any place in my life," he concluded cynically.

 

"John..." Mike murmured, troubled. "Oh, John... You didn't always think that."

 

John stared into the distance. Into a past that lay so far back it seemed as if it were part of a novel. He heard laughter in his head... laughter that had faded and died long ago... Victor... John closed his eyes. He squeezed the lids together, forced the images with all his might back into the dark corner of his memory they'd escaped from. He bit down on his lips. Victor... His face twisted into an ugly mask. Let him rot in hell! He'd been too soft back then. He should have listened to Mike after all. He should have had him hunted down. Hunted, found, and brought back... to punish him... to hurt him... just as much as he'd hurt John...

 

"John? You still there?"

 

Hearing Mike's voice so close to his ear made him flinch. "Yeah... I... I'm still here," John answered, dispelling the last mists of the past with a brisk shake of his head.

 

"John... where's your gun?" Mike asked calmly.

 

"Oh, Mike! Really?" John scoffed with half a smile. "I'm not going to eat a bullet."

 

"I know. Take out the clip."

 

"You're not serious..." John retorted, baffled and also a little touched.

 

"For me – and your house staff. Wouldn't want to you shoot your cook because she put too much salt in your scrambled eggs. Take the magazine out and put it somewhere you won't be able to get to it that fast."

 

John gave in. It was easier to surrender than to argue with Mike any longer. Once Mike set his mind on something, he could be surprisingly stubborn.

 

"All right."

 

"I'm waiting."

 

"Oh my God!" John groaned, but he took the gun obediently out of his shoulder holster and, with a practised motion, released the magazine with a clearly audible clatter onto the little table in front of him. "Satisfied?"

 

"Very. Thanks, John. Talk to you tomorrow."

 

"Er... just a sec," John detained him a moment longer. "I just thought of something. There is something you could arrange for me."

 

"What?" Mike asked, immediately on alert.

 

"We should send Glendale a couple of bottles of that Spanish sherry he likes so much."

 

"Glendale," Mike repeated dryly. "Okay. Anything else I need to know? Or is it better for my peace of mind that I remain in the dark?"

 

"Good night, Mike," John said with a thin smile and rang off.

 

Maybe the time really had come to do the right thing. At least where Sherlock was concerned. John didn't need to overdo it, after all.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_**To be continued...** _

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

[ **https://41.media.tumblr.com/2515747fe79bce663abfd23235fd29c7/tumblr_nnmmyuVLN91rdja6so1_500.jpg** ](https://41.media.tumblr.com/2515747fe79bce663abfd23235fd29c7/tumblr_nnmmyuVLN91rdja6so1_500.jpg)

 

 


	15. On the Difficulty of Doing the Right Thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My neverending thanks go to [themuller](http://archiveofourown.org/users/themuller/pseuds/themuller) who provided me with the summary for this story. Thanks my dear! (I suck at summaries...)
> 
> and to [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/profile) who is the most awesome translator an author could wish for.

**Chapter 15: On the Difficulty of Doing the Right Thing**

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Sherlock wore the same suit he had on the first time John saw him. This time, however, he wasn't sitting in the armchair waiting for him, but standing – deliberately casual – next to the hearth. A gently bent elbow rested on the mantel. He presented the picture of a perfect, unassailable Victorian gentleman – aside from the fact that he was wearing modern clothing and clutching the shelf. That alone was sufficient to draw John's attention to the fact that Sherlock was more nervous than at their first meeting. He hadn't had to hold onto anything that time.

 

Still, John took it as a good sign that Sherlock had chosen that particular suit to wear tonight. He fancied it meant that Sherlock was willing to forgive, and to start a new chapter.

 

“We need to talk,” John said in lieu of a greeting and took a seat in one of the armchairs.

 

Sherlock's face, expressionless until that moment, twisted into a grimace. “Must we?”

 

“Yes, we must,” John returned tersely.

 

“Fine, go ahead,” Sherlock said with a distinct lack of enthusiasm and just a tad too cool to be deemed relaxed. “It's just that nothing good for me has ever come of that opening.”

 

“Sit,” John said without responding to Sherlock's remark.

 

“I'd rather stand.”

 

“As you like.” John took a deep breath and asked himself why it wasn't easier for him to say what he was about to. “I'd like you to tell me your safeword.”

 

Sherlock stared at him, baffled. “My what?”

 

“Your _safeword_. You do know what a _safeword_ is, don't you?”

 

“Of course I do,” Sherlock said dismissively. “A word that leads to an immediate end of any activity as soon as it's spoken.”

 

“Well?”

 

“Well what?” Sherlock echoed.

 

“Are you going to tell me?”

 

“I'd be hard pressed to.”

 

“And why's that?”

 

“Because I don't have one,” Sherlock explained simply.

 

“What... you don't have...” Now it was John's turn to put on a baffled face.

 

Sherlock shrugged. “It doesn't make much sense in this business. Almost everything's agreed on with the clients beforehand, and if something does run counter to agreement … what is one to do? Call the police? Nice try.”

 

“Then think of one.”

 

“Is this your newest obsession?” Sherlock asked, now evincing mild interest.

 

“It's not an obsession!” John barked. “It's sensible!”

 

“Sensible... pfff,” Sherlock scoffed. “Who wants to be sensible...” He made a dismissive gesture. “But fine. Since you seem to have your heart set on it... _chocolate pudding_.”

 

He was met with a murderous look. “I have the feeling you're not taking this entirely seriously,” John said darkly.

 

“You might be right.” Sherlock sighed. “All right … if in fact … we had agreed on a _safeword_ in advance … and I hadn't been gagged the other day and could have used it … would it have made any difference? Would I have got through to you? Would you have reacted to it at all?”

 

John looked away, not answering.

 

“You see – and that's why a _safeword_ is utterly superfluous,” Sherlock said with that simple acceptance which astounded John every time and which he still didn't understand … and would probably never understand.

 

“It won't happen again,” John stated firmly. He looked up at Sherlock, who moistened his lips briefly. It made him seem uncertain.

 

“Does that mean... you won't tie me down again? Never?” Sherlock pressed insistently.

 

What should John answer to that? What did Sherlock want to hear from him? He couldn't see any clues in that pale, narrow face, so still it almost appeared to be made of stone.

 

“No,” John answered quietly.

 

“No?” Sherlock repeated in a whisper, and John saw him sway a bit before he steadied himself again.

 

“No, I mean... dammit, of course I'll tie you down!” John cried impatiently, feeling a bit helpless. “I'll tie you down and hit you. There's … no sense otherwise... I'm not going to change myself. I'm not going to give something up that I enjoy just because you might...” Sherlock's choked sob startled him, and he fell silent, watching in amazement as Sherlock rubbed his eyes with a trembling hand.

 

“Thank God... thank God...” he murmured, covering his mouth with his hand. “I thought … you weren't going to...” He swallowed, laughed a little uncertainly and then said in a shaky voice, “Don't scare me like that again, all right?”

 

John's gaze softened. “And now can you finally sit down?”

 

Sherlock nodded obediently, went over to John and lowered himself onto his lap, managing to cuddle up against him like a kitten despite his height.

 

“That's not what I meant, Sherlock!” John scolded him, stern yet indulgent.

 

“I know.” Sherlock blinked at him in challenge. “Punish me,” he breathed out provocatively.

 

“Maybe later,” John offered. “We're not done talking.”

 

Sherlock sighed in defeat. “I was afraid of that. It's really not easy to distract you...”

 

“Let's get down to the good news... you're going to have a blood test,” John announced.

 

Sherlock's head lifted from John's shoulder only to give him a reproachful look. “ _That's_ what you call _good_ news? Try another one!”

 

“I really don't know why I let you get away with talking back to me all the time,” John mused with a stern edge to his voice. “I should gag you much more often.” He regretted the words as soon as they were spoken. He'd thought long and hard about how he wanted things to continue between himself and Sherlock. There was no question in his mind regarding giving up bondage and spankings, and he was relieved to hear that Sherlock saw things the same way. But he had very mixed feelings about using gags after that incident... they'd never been his favourite implement, but since that evening... maybe he would have listened to Sherlock if he'd spoken up... if he'd _been able_ to speak, if he hadn't been gagged … and then the unthinkable might never have happened...

 

“What's stopping you then?” Sherlock asked quietly.

 

John looked at him and realised that Sherlock was watching him very closely, attuned and alert, like a hunting dog who wasn't sure whether he had caught the right scent or not.

 

“The fact that I like hearing you beg far too much … hearing you scream … with pain … with lust...” he whispered in Sherlock's ear, making him shiver at the words.

 

“Good,” Sherlock said in a low voice. “I never liked the things anyway. The rubber tastes awful and all that slobbering is horribly humiliating... What? Why are you laughing? What did I say?”

 

“Nothing.” John suppressed his giggles with some effort, asking himself for the thousandth time what he'd ever done to deserve Sherlock. He still wasn't sure if the man was a reward or a punishment. “It's just... I humiliate you all the time and you like it. But a little thing like a gag...”

 

Sherlock shrugged. “Even I have my limits.”

 

“Which brings us back to your blood test,” John returned unflinchingly to the original topic, causing Sherlock to groan in annoyance.

 

“It is truly impossible to distract you!”

 

“No, not really. But if you'd ever let me finish speaking then you'd know what the good news for you is in all this.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Very well...”

 

“Thank you ever so much,” John replied sarcastically. “The good news is I'm going to have a blood test done too.”

 

“You're... going to...” Sherlock blinked several times in succession.

 

“If I recall correctly... you've swallowed quite a bit already, haven't you?” John said, his voice a low rumble, and all of a sudden Sherlock stopped blinking and those pale eyes focussed in sharply.

 

“Yes... far too much...”

 

“Want to have some more?” John asked with a self-satisfied smirk.

 

Sherlock's Adam's apple bobbed visibly as he swallowed hard.

 

“Oh God yes...” Sherlock whispered hoarsely. John's semen. He was going to taste John's semen! His arms flung themselves automatically around John's neck, and he pressed a stormy kiss to John's narrow lips, which John returned tentatively until he was able to free his mouth and nudge Sherlock back a bit.

 

“I wasn't finished,” he warned Sherlock with a stern look.

 

“Yes, you were,” Sherlock replied nonchalantly, re-arranged his legs so that he was straddling John's lap, and ground his hips against John's lower body.

 

He groaned in pleasure when his nascent erection met with a similar bulge in John's trousers. His hands got to work on John's flies, finally getting them open. There was already a wet spot clearly visible on the black material of John's underwear.

 

“Ooohhh yessss...” Sherlock groaned slowly and opened his own trousers with shaky, frantic fingers. His half-hard erection obeyed both the law of gravity and Sherlock's desire, and pressed against the hot bundle in John's pants.

 

“Do you often walk around naked underneath your suit?” John asked, breathless.

 

“Yes... if the underwear … would ruin... the cut,” Sherlock answered with some effort as he circled his hips, rubbing his increasingly stiff penis against the soft material. “And when I feel like it,” he added with a wink.

 

“Insatiable...” John growled, pushed Sherlock back a bit and freed his cock as well as he could from his pants. Then he grabbed Sherlock's hips and pulled him close again.

 

At the moment when their cocks met for the first time, both men gasped for air. Sherlock was louder and more uninhibited, John quieter and more tentative. The feeling of skin against naked skin was equally intense for both, however. The slide of the soft, malleable skin over the hot, hard flesh underneath... the pull and give of the foreskin... the dry friction... the electric tingle when their glans stuck together, resisting the forward motion for a moment that was almost painful, followed by the erotic relief when a bead of pre-come supplied enough moisture to make the friction more pleasant again.

 

“I don't hear you complaining,” Sherlock panted as he stared at their erections, mesmerised by the way they pressed together, rubbing and stimulating each other.

 

With a throaty moan, he tossed his head back, sucked on his lower lip, and held absolutely still for a few seconds. As John was pretty much trapped between Sherlock and the chair and thus wasn't able to contribute much to the proceedings, he was also forced to hold still, feeling the throbbing pulse of Sherlock's hard length against his own penis. John closed his eyes and felt Sherlock's arousal, which in turn fanned the flames of his own desire. He felt that delicious _too-little-too-light-just-enough_ sensation that he hadn't had in a very long time.

 

One of Sherlock's hands let go of the top of the armchair, where it had been clenched, and slid over John's shirt, feeling and stroking his way downward. A warm fluid dribbled over the tip of John's penis, and he realised that Sherlock had begun to produce large quantities of pre-ejaculate again.

 

John opened his eyes again and watched as Sherlock's long, thin fingers wrapped themselves effortlessly around both of their erections before beginning to pump up and down in rapid yet oddly gentle motions.

 

John licked his lips. This was good. Fantastic, in fact. But it was proceeding much too fast, and there was no way he was going to let Sherlock gain the upper hand – quite literally. His hands groped for Sherlock's chest, seeking the hard nipples under his shirt – causing Sherlock to moan softly - and pinched them mercilessly.

 

“Not so fast...” John reprimanded him with deceptive gentleness.

 

Sherlock gasped for air and his hips jerked forward, but it wasn't until John increased the pressure on his nipples that he stilled his hand. John twisted Sherlock's nipples a bit, solely in order to hear him whimper and to see his body bend forward. Only then did he let go.

 

“Your belt,” John ordered him curtly.

 

Sherlock directed a glazed look at him. “Belt?” he repeated slowly.

 

John grabbed him by the chin. “I don't think you want me to repeat myself,” he declared in a firm voice. Sherlock's pupils dilated.

 

“Belt,” Sherlock murmured, half to himself, hurrying to pull the item through the loops of his open trousers.

 

“Hands on your back,” John commanded once he'd been given the strip of leather. Breathing hard, Sherlock followed the order with a sigh of contentment. It wasn't exactly easy to tie someone's wrists without seeing what he was doing, but John had enough experience to master the task. He wrapped the belt around Sherlock's wrists several times, pulling the binding tight with the buckle. He checked whether the leather was snug yet loose enough not to cut off Sherlock's circulation entirely or do any other damage, and decided he was satisfied with his handiwork.

 

He'd hardly had time to lean back in the chair again before Sherlock sank down onto him, pushed into him with a soft whimper, tried to grind against him and finally pressed his soft lips onto John's mouth in a sinful kiss.

 

“John...” Sherlock panted between kisses. “More... please...”

 

“Oh, I don't know,” John managed to say before those hungry lips descended on his again.

 

“Please-please-please,” Sherlock whispered against his mouth.

 

John's right hand grabbed Sherlock's wild curls and yanked his head back roughly, causing him to emit a sharp scream even as he continued to rub his cock against John's.

 

“Why is it so difficult for you to let me finish speaking today?” John asked so sweetly that Sherlock's gaze cleared for a moment and he regarded him with interest.

 

John raised an eyebrow. “I'm waiting.”

 

“I know you're going to tell me something unpleasant today. Something I don't want to hear,” Sherlock replied.

 

Sherlock's disarming honesty made John shake his head. “You should know by now that I never deviate from a plan once I've made it.”

 

“It was worth a try.”

 

John snorted softly. “I'm going to tell you exactly the same thing now that I wanted to tell you five minutes ago. And nothing that you've said or done in the meantime has changed anything about it.” His fingers disengaged from Sherlock's hair.

 

Sherlock bit his lips and let his head sink. When John's left hand caressed Sherlock's cock, though, his head lifted again and he gave John a look that was both surprised and assessing

 

“So...” John drawled, enjoying Sherlock's bewilderment. “You want more?” Sherlock nodded with a hesitantly wary air. Oh, that was too amusing! “You're probably hoping I'm going to take both of us in hand at the same time?” He stroked Sherlock's erection harder and felt the slight, reflexive motions of the other man. “And I've no doubt you want me to jerk us both off until we come together?”

 

“God, yes,” Sherlock gasped softly, not letting the hand John was touching him with out of his sight.

 

“And then maybe I should keep going? Until you're completely empty and it even hurts a little to be touched? And you're twitching helplessly in my hand, not able to get hard again because you just came and sprayed your come all over my dick? Hmm? Like the sound of that?”

 

“Fantastic,” Sherlock said, the sound no more than a rattle in his throat.

 

“Welll...” John drew the word out and took his hand off of Sherlock's throbbing shaft. “Too bad. My fingers aren't as long as yours.” He demonstrated by attempting to span both of their erections at once. “See? Won't work,” John said with mock regret. “I'll just have to settle for wanking myself. You can watch,” he allowed generously. “And you can rub yourself against my knuckles. Maybe that'll do you,” he concluded, taunting, took his fingers off Sherlock and placed them around his own cock.

 

Sherlocks burning gaze followed him.

 

“That's completely unfair,” he whispered huskily, although he didn't let it stop him from groaning greedily and pressing himself against John's knuckles as they moved up and down.

 

“You haven't stopped dripping the whole time,” John reminded him. “You like it.”

 

Sherlock swallowed hard, but held John's gaze. “Yes,” he breathed out, his cheeks bright red, even as a fresh stream of fluid pulsed out of the slit in his penis.

 

John teased Sherlock a little more by angling his hand from time to time such that Sherlock couldn't reach his knuckles, but when Sherlock buried his head in the corner of John's neck and did nothing but whine with unfulfilled desire, he gave in. Although the tortured whimpers were music to his ears, he didn't want to be unnecessarily cruel. His own arousal had reached the point where everything in him was screaming for release.

 

The weight of Sherlock's body, the heat pouring off him, the noises coming out of his throat, the sounds he was making, the smell of his sweat, his helplessness... it all came together and made John's hand move faster, his respiration increase, his blood rush hotter through his veins, and the lusty throbbing in his groin become a steady surge... more and more and more..

 

With a harsh cry, John ejaculated over his own hand.

 

As the waves of his ecstasy receded, he became aware that Sherlock was still all but crushing him, yet he was holding himself completely still and quiet. And then he felt the soft lips on his throat. Utterly calm, utterly silent, his pulse beating against them, and he realised that was what Sherlock was looking for. His pulse. A confirmation that he was all right. Then a chaste, fleeting kiss on his neck, a whisper of “John?” that hit John in a spot deep in his soul that he'd never wanted to allow to be a target again, not for the rest of his life.

 

“ _Come_ ,” he whispered to Sherlock, groping between their bodies where they were plastered together to find the hard erection, which twitched hopefully against his fingers. “Come for _me_.”

 

It only took two or three strokes until Sherlock stiffened and, with a sound that was more a sob than a cry, spilled over John's fingers.

 

“Thank you,” Sherlock breathed against his shoulder.

 

That was the second time Sherlock had thanked him in that tone of voice, and it was still unfamiliar to John's ears.

 

John cleared his throat. “I'll call an hour or two before I drop by in future,” he said. “There's no need for you to be ready for me all the time. I've already discussed it with Miss Adler.”

 

“That's what you wanted to tell me?” Sherlock murmured against his shoulder. He sounded sleepy.

 

“Yeah, that was it. And I hope I don't have to fuck your brains out every time I want to get a word in edgewise with you.”

 

“You can try it,” Sherlock said, yawned heartily and snuggled in closer to John.

 

“You're heavy,” John complained, yet didn't make any attempt to change the situation. “How can someone as thin as you be so heavy?”

 

“It's one of the mysteries of the universe,” Sherlock replied dryly. “Oh yes – a tip for the future: passing out when I'm still tied up … not a good idea.”

 

“I didn't pass out,” John protested vehemently. “I just... may have been a bit _too relaxed_ for a moment,” he eventually confessed. “And you could have called someone for help... or just gone out into the hall and got someone and...”

 

“Calling for help in a brothel. Yes, _wonderful_ plan. Everyone would have come running immediately,” Sherlock said sarcastically. “And go out into the hall? That would only have worked this time because I'm not tied down. So – no matter what you call whatever just happened... don't do it anymore,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly and started to nibble sleepily on John's earlobe.

 

John let him. What else could he do? Sherlock was right.

 

“Sherlock...” he began hesitantly without really knowing what he wanted to say... only to hear soft snoring sounds next to his ear. Sherlock had fallen asleep on his shoulder.

 

John sighed.

 

God... he'd really thought it would be easier to do the _right thing_!

 

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

“Irene!” Sherlock demanded her attention as soon as he entered her office.

 

Without looking up from the papers she was reading, Irene said, “Did Doc Watson _come_ and go already?”

 

“Stop with your inane jokes,” Sherlock shot back angrily. “I'm serious. And have the decency to look at me when I'm talking to you!”

 

“You're always serious,” Irene responded disparagingly. “Rome is always burning. The Titanic's always sinking. I don't like to say this, but – you're a drama queen. Although...” she added with a smile. “Strike the part about _not liking_ to say it. I bloody well love saying it!” The smirk disappeared from her face, however, when she looked up and saw Sherlock's sober expression, which really did worry her.

 

“All right. What's going on?” she came directly to the point.

 

“He wants a blood test,” Sherlock answered flatly.

 

Irene raised her eyebrows. “And how is that a probl... Oh. I see. He'll want to see it. And your name will need to be on it.”

 

“Exactly. My name. My name, which can never be allowed to be seen outside this house.”

 

Irene drummed her red-lacquered nails on her desk as she thought. “I know someone... he owes me a favour... maybe … Yes. It should work.” She gave Sherlock a comforting look. “I think I can get the results on a blank form. We'd just need to fill in your name.”

 

“Are you sure?” Sherlock asked distrustfully.

 

“I'm sure,” Irene assured him, giving him a long, calculating look. “Is all of this really still necessary? All this hide-and-seek? After all this time?”

 

Sherlock's lips pressed together into a thin line. “Yes,” he said brusquely, appearing to be quite sure of himself. “I don't want _him_ to find me.”

 

“All right,” Irene sighed. “Your life – your decision. Although I'm not sure I'd really call this a _life_.”

 

Sherlock turned away. “It's better than anything else I've ever had,” he said coldly.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

**_To be continued..._ **

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**


	16. Not Enough

 

**Chapter 16: Not Enough**

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

“I'm bored,” Sherlock whinged, slamming the door to Irene's office shut behind himself.

 

Irene jumped at the dramatic entrance, but didn't want to let on how startled she was. “I didn't hear you knock,” she remarked tightly.

 

“Probably because I _didn't_ ,” Sherlock explained in a careless tone, virtually throwing himself into the chair designated for visitors.

 

Irene rubbed her temples with her fingers. “If I ignore you, what are the chances that you'll disappear again and stop bothering me?”

 

Sherlock gave the question serious consideration. “Oh, I'd say... if you take all the factors into account, then the chances are one to...”  


“You know what? I don't want to know,” Irene interrupted him in a cutting tone. “So _you_ 're bored. How is that _my_ concern?”

 

“Do something!” Sherlock demanded, pushing his lower lip forward in a pout, entirely reminiscent of the little boy he'd been over twenty years ago.

 

Irene glared at him grimly. “That may have looked cute in the past... now it just looks ridiculous.”

 

But when Sherlock didn't do anything other than sigh heavily, making no move to get up and let Irene do her bookkeeping in peace, she gave in. At least a little.

 

“Could it be that you're bored because Doc Watson hasn't been here yet today?”

 

“It may be tangentially related,” Sherlock admitted, inspecting his fingernails intently.

 

“For heaven's sake,” Irene cried, tossing her hands up. “The man has other things to do than shag you. You see him every other day as it is!”

 

“As if that were anywhere near enough...” Sherlock grumbled under his breath.

 

Irene shook her head and murmured something that sounded like “ _insatiable_.” Out loud, she said, “Then find a hobby! And stop annoying me and distracting me from my work!”

 

“A hobby?” Sherlock looked up from his fingernails and scowled. “Like what?”

 

“How should I know?” Irene exclaimed hotly. “Crossword puzzles, sudoku, stamp collecting, crocheting lace doilies...”

 

Sherlock snorted derisively. “As if...”

 

Irene had come to the end of her rope. “All right,” she huffed. “You're bored? Fine. Then you can do the bloody books for me. My tax advisor needs everything by the end of the week.” She got up, walked around her desk, and went toward the door.

 

“And where are you going?” Sherlock asked, sounding affronted.

 

“Shopping.”

 

“What about me?”

 

“You, my dear boy, are going to balance the books for me.” Irene gave him a smile that was as sweet as honey. “ _Tout de suite!_ ”

 

“But I can't!” Sherlock protested.

 

Irene exhaled in annoyance and put her hands on her hips. “You must have learned something at all those elite universities you went to.”

 

“Of course,” Sherlock admitted, albeit grudgingly. “Economics and a bit of law, philosophy naturally, some physics and chemistry and...”

 

“There you are!” Irene crowed triumphantly. “Economics! That's enough for me. And you'll figure out anything you don't know. You're such a clever boy. What was your IQ again?” And with those words, she left the office, leaving behind a baffled and indignant Sherlock, who eyed the documents on Irene's desk with a scowl.

 

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Although both of their blood tests came back negative, John continued to withhold his semen from Sherlock. It was something he used to tempt and torture him – something he dangled in front of him but never let him have.

 

It was a game between them, one that an outsider would have found cruel and unnecessary, but it titillated and engaged both of them.

 

Sherlock was generally allowed to take John's soft penis in his mouth, to nuzzle and fondle it with his tongue and lips until it was hard; every time, Sherlock hoped he'd be allowed to continue, only to have John pull out, hold his erection in front of Sherlock's face, stroke his own hand down it until the first drops welled up at the tip, and then sometimes Sherlock was allowed to lick those drops up with his tongue.

 

It was pure torture, and Sherlock loved every second of it.

 

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Time and space had lost all meaning for Sherlock.

 

He was floating in a sea of pain and arousal with his eyes closed, only just able to maintain a balance between the two. The pressure on his nipples and the pull on his scrotum were finally in exact equilibrium, and Sherlock had no intention of changing anything. He filtered out everything else until he consisted only of body, sensation, and ecstasy.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

A disturbance. Annoying. Sherlock squeezed his eyelids together harder, resisting.

 

“Sherlock? Do you hear me?”

 

Adamant. Almost concerned. Sherlock would have liked to sigh, but that might knock everything out of balance. So he didn't.

 

“Sherlock! Nod if you hear me.”

 

Good one, John. Good one.

 

“Sherlock... look at me. Now!”

 

A direct order. Damn.

 

Sherlock opened his eyes. All he could see was the wall across from the bed. He should have known John wasn't going to make it easy for him. He tilted his head as slowly as possible, causing a concomitant increase in the pulling and pricking in his scrotum. At the same time, the burning in his nipples lessened a bit.

 

There – John finally appeared in his field of vision. Naturally, John was seated before him on the bed, still fully clothed but with a definite swelling between his legs that interrupted the line of his expensive trousers. There was indeed a trace of worry in his dark blue eyes. Sherlock blinked once. _Everything fine – I'm all right._

 

“That's good,” John responded to Sherlock's blink, smiling fiendishly.

 

Sherlock realized why a moment later, when he felt the feather-light touch of a finger sliding gently along the underside of his stiff penis. Sherlock leaned his head back with a throaty groan, only to regret it immediately when the pain in his nipples suddenly spiked. Panting, Sherlock tried to re-establish the balance between his chest and his genitals, but he couldn't quite find it anymore. He glared angrily at the opposite wall, cursing John's creativity which had got him into this wonderful situation.

 

Sherlock stood in front of the bed where John had made himself comfortable. He was completely naked, with his arms stretched over his head and bound with broad leather cuffs to a rope that John had attached to a handily placed hook in the ceiling. The rope had enough slack for Sherlock to hold onto it without putting all his weight on the cuffs, as well as making it possible for him to free himself – if with a bit of effort – should it become necessary.

 

His ankles were likewise bound with leather cuffs, although these were attached to a spreader bar. The pulling and pricking in his scrotum came from a thick rubber covering – otherwise known as a parachute – that John had snapped into place around his testicles, surrounding them just like a little cloak. Three chains were attached to the parachute, and the rope, which John had tied to the chains, ensured that Sherlock's testicles were pulled back between his thighs. The rope itself ran up Sherlock's back and over his right shoulder so he could hold the knotted end between his teeth.

 

As soon as he tipped his head forward, the pull on his testicles became sharper, and the small, rounded spikes that lined the inside of the parachute pressed ever harder into the soft, sensitive tissue, releasing little explosions of pleasure endorphins in Sherlock's brain despite the pain.

 

The parachute alone would have made Sherlock happy for hours, but John hadn't settled for that.

 

No sooner was the parachute on and tested than John had affixed two nipple clamps to Sherlock's chest, causing Sherlock to gasp for air.

 

“A little tight?” John asked. Sherlock nodded automatically, leading to an explosion of pain in his groin. With a hoarse cry, he let the rope between his teeth go, and arousal gained the upper hand.

 

“Okay, Sherlock,” John said sternly. “It works like this: you get both this rope between your teeth and the one that I'm going to attach to the nipple clamps. That's why they need to be a little tighter than usual. Not that you pull them off after five minutes.”

 

Sherlock understood. It would be like being on a seesaw. A seesaw of arousal and pain. If he bent his head forward, he'd relieve his nipples but intensify the pain in his testicles. If he leaned his head back … the mere thought made his knees to weak, and he felt his erection stiffen just a little bit more.

 

“And then?” he asked hoarsely.

 

“Then nothing,” John explained cheerfully. “You can let go of the ropes any time if it gets too much.”

 

“What's the catch?” Sherlock asked.

 

John stood very close to Sherlock, so close that he could feel the other man's body heat and the proof of his arousal.

 

“I'll give you an orgasm, I promise you that...” John growled into his ear, making Sherlock quiver with anticipation. “But only as long as you keep holding both ropes between your teeth. I'll even make a knot in them so it's easier.”

 

“And if I let the ropes go?” Sherlock whispered back.

 

“Then...” John stepped back and took a good look at the helpless man before him. “Then I'll untie you and leave.”

 

“No orgasm?” Sherlock asked, just to be sure.

 

“No orgasm,” John agreed with a cruel grin that cut Sherlock to the quick. “For at least a week. All right?”

 

“All right,” Sherlock said hoarsely, licking his lips in a vain attempt to moisten them. Shortly thereafter, he found the ends of both ropes in his mouth, and he clenched his teeth down on them as if his life depended on it.

 

Since then, he'd been trapped in a kind of purgatory – swinging back and forth between heaven and hell – the pain never so unbearable that he considered giving up, and the pleasure never great enough to achieve a climax. It was a perfidious arrangement that was deliciously agonizing in its own right.

 

John kept stimulating his almost painfully swollen penis with feather-light touches, masturbated him now and then, yet always stopped as soon as Sherlock's body stiffened in an omen of an impending orgasm.

 

At some point, Sherlock tried to tune everything out, but that hadn't achieved anything other than John ordering him to look at him.

 

“Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock...” John admonished him quietly. “Whatever am I going to do with you?” John gently tapped Sherlock's erection, where the first drops of pre-come were visible at the tip. “You're going to ruin Miss Adler's carpet.”

 

Sherlock really couldn't have cared less. The friction of the fingertip across his glans was fantastic. He closed his eyes, concentrated on the upswelling of lust in his groin, and hoped that John was going to keep his promise this time. But all of a sudden, the fingers were gone, leaving in their place John's breath flowing coolly over his slippery-hot cock. Sherlock shuddered. Then the breath came closer, and then... then there was something wet and smooth licking his glans...

 

Sherlock flung his eyes open in shock. He didn't dare look down. Could it be? Could it be that John – John! - was licking his erection with his tongue? Licking him clean? Over and over again?

 

Sherlock's entire body trembled. He knew it wouldn't take long for him to climax like this. The pain in his chest and testicles wasn't forgotten, but it only served to encourage his lust. At the same time, he knew – if he tilted his head forward to watch as John... Sherlock moaned … as John sucked on his penis... Sherlock's teeth clenched down harder on the ropes … the pull on his testicles would be so great that it would put an end to any hint of an orgasm.

 

Sherlock struggled with himself. Sweat ran down his back and his temples. His knees were shaking and his lower body was quivering with the effort of remaining still and not thrusting his hips forward.

 

Never before … never before had John caressed Sherlock's penis with his tongue. Never! And he might never do it again. Should he miss the chance to see it? And if he did look, would he be able to control himself and continue holding the ropes? Yet wouldn't it be worth it? On the other hand... the threat of a week of chastity still hung over him, and he wouldn't put it past John at all to enact appropriate measures to make sure the punishment was carried out.

 

Sherlock shivered hot and cold. The tongue was still on his glans. Unrelenting. And then... then Sherlock felt dry, soft skin for the first time. A kiss on his throbbing erection, and in the middle of the kiss that wet, gentle tongue again.

 

Sherlock bit down firmly on the ropes and tilted his head.

 

The sharp pain in his testicles increased, as expected, making him squeeze his eyes shut. He panted through it, and wasn't able to open his eyes again until he'd acclimated to it and the stretching and burning had mellowed into a dull heat.

 

His gaze met John's dark blue eyes, now almost black with arousal, and John's reddened lips, glistening with moisture.

 

“Finally,” John sighed in amusement. “I was afraid you weren't interested after all.” And with those words, he kissed Sherlock's penis again before sinking down on it with his mouth.

 

Sherlock's entire body twitched when he felt the mouth of another man for the first time. It was so wet and warm and tight … no wonder everyone was so obsessed with oral sex … It wasn't as if Sherlock had never felt a tongue on his shaft before, but no one had ever truly given him sexual pleasure with their mouth – and it was certainly something he never expected from John.

 

John's mouth and tongue and lips felt incredible, and Sherlock's arousal spiralled higher and higher, yet he still held back, struggled against deliverance, didn't know whether he should _really_ … whether he had permission _to_...

 

The lips released Sherlock's rigid flesh for a moment, but before he had time to fall into a pit of despair, John whispered against his stomach: “It's okay,” and then he was surrounded again with warmth, friction, and wetness. All of his dammed-up lust broke through, discharged in a scream and a cramp-like tremor that seemed to go on forever. The ropes escaped from between his teeth, and tears ran down his cheeks as he climaxed in John's mouth.

 

He didn't even notice that his whole body was shaking until John was standing in front of him with one arm wrapped around him and the other rubbing frantically at his own erection, which he'd freed from the prison of his trousers. When John's hot semen sprayed on his thigh and stomach, Sherlock's knees finally gave way, his impotent fingers couldn't hold onto the rope overhead anymore, and he sank down into his bonds. John, however, lifted him up again right away, lessening the strain on his wrists, and opened the leather cuffs.

 

He laid him cautiously onto the bed and removed the spreader bar. Then he released the clamps and the parachute from Sherlock's overstimulated body as carefully as he could. Sherlock still flinched at every touch, and when the blood flowed back into his abused body parts, he reacted as if he were experiencing pain once again. The truth was, it was more or less a neuromuscular reflex. His brain – still busy with the aftershocks of his intense orgasm – didn't register any of it.

 

Once John had made sure that blood was circulating properly in all parts of Sherlock's body, he covered him up. Then he lay down next to him and kissed him hungrily.

 

Sherlock tasted his own semen on John's tongue, and a renewed shiver of arousal ran through him. He was so confused … he'd counted on him being the first one of them to have a mouthful of sperm... he'd waited for it for weeks – and now? Now he almost felt a bit – _cheated_ , that John was the one who … John … he'd never expected him to...

 

“There's nothing to cry about,” John murmured gently, wiping the tears from Sherlock's cheeks with his thumb. “You were fantastic. More than fantastic.” He wrapped his arms around him and kissed away the last remnants of tears. “Singular. You were.. you are.. singular.”

 

Sherlock looked at him, his eyes round, wanted to tell him how much … how incredible … how overwhelming … how confused … how no other man had ever … but the tears, which he swallowed down for John's sake, closed off his throat, and for the first time in his life, he understood how it was possible to cry with happiness.

 

John was a first in many ways for Sherlock. And Sherlock was happy about that. So happy.

 

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

“Your tax advisor is a duffer.” Sherlock greeted Irene with the devastating news one morning when she entered her office, only to find to her surprise that Sherlock was already sitting at her desk, which was full of binders, invoices, and account statements.

 

“I can't believe that,” she replied, taken aback. “He came highly recommended.” She tilted her head a bit to the side. “And he's not exactly cheap.”

 

“I've gone through the records for the past several years, and you've paid significantly more taxes than you needed to.”

 

Irene fell silent for a moment before exclaiming angrily, “That little arsewipe!”

 

The left corner of Sherlock's mouth lifted in a sympathetic grin. It happened so rarely that Irene lost her cool and used such coarse language.

 

“I can prepare a letter to Revenue and Customs for you... I think the last two assessments can be revised and for the current return, I can...” He didn't get any further, as Irene placed a loud kiss smack in the middle of his mouth. “Have you gone completely mad?!” he cried indignantly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “That's disgusting!”

 

“You are worth your weight in gold!” Irene crowed, ignoring his outburst. “I knew you'd manage it.”

 

The flattery mollified Sherlock somewhat.

 

“I had to work through several explanatory volumes to get an idea of what's going on... but once you know what to look for and what the possibilities are and how much leeway there is, all this bookkeeping is child's play, really.”

 

“I knew you'd have fun,” Irene beamed. “All these numbers...”

 

Sherlock's face pulled into a grimace. “I'm afraid your idea of _fun_ doesn't quite match up with mine,” he remarked disparagingly. “But at least it helped pass the time.”

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

John had arrived at Miss Adler's establishment quite early that day and pulled Sherlock across the bed without preamble, where he now lay stretched out on his stomach as John fucked him with slow, concentrated strokes.

 

John was crouching more than kneeling, with Sherlock's lower body in his lap. Sherlock's long legs were spread wide, lying to the left and right of John's body on the mattress. It wasn't possible to go deep or hard in this position, so their joining was more like a sensual rocking, helped along by John's powerful hands holding Sherlock's hips and pulling him in more tightly.

 

Sherlock's erection was wedged in the space between John's thighs, where it was caught in an infernal back-and-forth of too much pressure and too little friction.

 

In order to get more air, Sherlock had his head turned to the side, since John had insisted that he cross his hands behind his neck rather than holding himself up on the mattress. It was uncomfortable and hard to breathe, yet he was extremely aroused; he wondered fleetingly whether his heightened arousal were related to the slight reduction in his oxygen level, and whether John had taken that into account. Or perhaps the strange, light-headed feeling stemmed from the fact that, for quite some time now, he'd only used his mouth to moan uncontrollably rather than to aid in breathing.

 

“Ooohhh... oh, John...”

 

“Keep your hands on your neck where I can see them,” John ordered him hoarsely, trying to push deeper into Sherlock. Dammit – he wanted to come … as erotic as this position was, it was completely impractical for a quick climax. He snuck a look at his watch. He didn't have much time left. He'd have to think of something.

 

“Aaahhh – just like that, yes, just like that … please... just a bit more … just a little bit deeper...” Sherlock moaned.

 

“You could work a bit for it too,” John reprimanded him, slapping him on the arse with one hand. Sherlock jerked and tensed his muscles. A sharp, lust-filled shout escaped his plump lips.

 

“Oh, yeah,” John panted when Sherlock's body tightened magnificently around his erection following the spank. “Okay,” John growled, his voice filled with heat. “Again.” He hit him again. And again those muscles squeezed his hard cock. “Mmmhhh... just like that. Do it again. Tense up your muscles... go on... again... yeah … again … you're so good at that... that's... oh yeah... oh … yes... that... FUCK!”

 

Just like the act itself, the orgasm flowed as thick and delicious as honey out of John's body. His ejaculate pulsed into Sherlock's hole in a lazy stream, and it took what seemed like half an eternity before John had the feeling he was completely empty. He cleared his throat, patted Sherlock on the arse, pushed him off his lap, and got up.

 

“All right, what time is it?” he asked Sherlock, even though he knew the answer full well.

 

Sherlock, lying on his side, felt John's come dripping out of his body, and turned back onto his stomach so he could stare at John in disbelief.

 

“WHAT?!”

 

Without paying any attention to him or his protest, John looked deliberately at his watch and slipped into his underwear.

 

“Look at the time. Gotta run,” he said, reaching for his trousers.

 

Sherlock's eyebrows pulled together ominously.

 

“What about me?! Haven't you forgotten something?”

 

“Oh right – thanks for reminding me,” John replied with his best shark-toothed grin and pulled up the zip on his trousers. “No orgasm until I'm back.”

 

“WHAT?”

 

“Problem?” John asked coolly.

 

“I should say so,” Sherlock huffed. “That's not fair! I've really been very good the past few days, and I...”

 

“Good?” John asked, raising one eyebrow.

 

Sherlock lowered his eyes. “Still! This is...” He groped for the word. “Mean!” he finally blurted out in desperation.

 

John pulled on his jacket and straightened his tie. “Tell someone who cares,” he said, unmoved.

 

“Bloody sadist!” Sherlock hissed, glaring at him angrily.

 

“Thank you for the compliment,” John said, heading for the door.

 

“It wasn't meant to be one!” Sherlock yelled after him, upset.

 

“I kno-how!” John called back cheerfully over his shoulder, and left.

 

Sherlock slammed both fists down on the mattress in silent fury.

 

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Barely three hours later, however, John was once again standing outside the door to the room he'd left Sherlock in. Dissatisfied and highly irritated, as John recalled. The thought made him smile. Their interlude that morning hadn't been enough for him either, and the thought of Sherlock tossing back and forth in bed, frustrated, had done its part toward jacking up John's libido. He reached between his legs to adjust his growing erection and then walked into the room without knocking.

 

Sherlock really was still lying in bed, but John was a bit disconcerted by his appearance. Sweat shimmered on his forehead, his eyes looked feverish, and his cheeks were flushed. Was Sherlock sick? Flu symptoms did have a tendency to pop up from one second to the next.

 

“You didn't call!” Sherlock hurled at him with surprising strength and a surprising degree of reproach, in lieu of a greeting.

 

John raised an eyebrow. “I wanted to surprise you. Aren't you happy to see me at all?” he drawled.

 

“See how much!” Sherlock exclaimed promptly, flipping the cover back so that John couldn't miss his dark red, swollen penis.

 

“Im-pressive,” John stammered, slightly taken aback, but he gathered himself quickly. “Then I can change my diagnosis from _flu_ to _blue balls_.”

 

Sherlock gave him a bewildered look. “Flu? How in the world do you come up with flu?”

 

“Sweaty forehead, flushed cheeks, glassy eyes, short of breath...” John listed the symptoms as he came to stand next to the bed.

 

“Ah,” Sherlock made an understanding sound and regarded him through half-lidded eyes. “And what about you?” A long, slender leg emerged from under the cover like an albino snake, and a foot – surprisingly narrow for its size - settled itself directly over the bulge in John's trousers. “Were you thinking of me this whole time too?” Sherlock wiggled his toes playfully.

 

John's mouth remained in a thin line, but his eyes twinkled as he carelessly caressed the foot.

 

“Were you a good boy?”

 

“Fairly,” Sherlock answered, moving the sole of his foot provocatively up and down between John's legs.

 

A hint of anxiety snuck onto John's face. “You're not going to seriously tell me you've had that monster hard-on for three hours? That's not exactly healthy...”

 

“Priapism. I know,” Sherlock interrupted, both bored and impatient. “No, it hasn't been on high alert the whole time. I've let it _cool down_ now and then.”

 

“Now and then?” John shuffled a little closer to that wicked foot. Things were starting to get interesting. And since when did he find feet erotic?

 

Sherlock gave him a deliberately naughty look. “You know... I kept playing with it … over and over... until I was just about to come. Then I stopped and waited until it got soft again... and then I rubbed it some more...”

 

“Fuck!” John cut into Sherlock's rather indifferent litany, which had nevertheless conjured images in his mind that he found extremely stimulating. How often had the tosser wanked himself until he was on the verge of an orgasm? How hard must it have been for him to take his hand off himself right at the last moment? Only to fall back onto the bed, panting hard, and waiting until the danger was past so he could start over again?

 

John swallowed hard and said with a light shake of his head, “Always one step away from disaster, aren't you?”

 

“Admit it, it wasn't enough for you this morning either!” Sherlock demanded. “And admit you're sorry you left me in that state!” Something twitched bodefully under his foot, and Sherlock bit his bottom lip – there was no more clear-cut sign of his desire … aside from his rather impressive erection.

 

“I might – just maybe - have been a tiny bit sorry ... until about five minutes ago,” John said throatily. “Not anymore.” He took a step back and said curtly, “Kneel down. Back toward me. I want to watch you fuck yourself with your own fingers.”

 

Sherlock gave John a long, hard look that he didn't know how to parse.

 

“That's going to be a bit difficult,” Sherlock said slowly. “At least not right away.”

 

“Why not?” John wanted to know.

 

Rather than answering directly, Sherlock got into the requested position and spread his legs obscenely wide, until John could make out a circle of red rubber – it could only be the end of a plug – sealing Sherlock's anus.

 

“That's why,” Sherlock said roughly, watching John over his shoulder.

 

“You've … when?” John asked, lacking quite a bit of his usual self-assuredness. He hadn't been prepared for the sight of the plug in Sherlock's arse, and he was so aroused by it he couldn't quite find his tongue.

 

“Right after you left,” Sherlock replied, confirming John's secret hope.

 

The thought that Sherlock was willingly wearing a plug (God, how the others had always fussed about it … _no, it's too uncomfortable_...) would have been sufficient to enthuse John for a second round. But knowing that Sherlock had done it to keep himself in a state of arousal for hours on end made John's throat go dry.

 

And when he realised that his come – thanks to the plug – was still inside Sherlock's body, he felt his erection throb and spread a wet spot in his underwear.

 

The urge to see his sperm in orifices at both ends of Sherlock's body at the same time made John's blood run hot. As if he were seized by a fever, he opened his trousers and took out his rigid cock.

 

“Come here. Leave the plug in... kneel down in front of me.” John couldn't do much more than pant the words, but he didn't care.

 

But rather than follow John's directions and assume the desired position, Sherlock turned around and stared at him in disbelief.

 

“Don't just stand there!” John snapped at him. “Get over here, open your mouth wide, and say 'Aaaaaa'...” _God … now he was making those stupid doctor jokes too,_ John thought, almost desperate. This impossible wanker was really going to drive him round the bend.

 

Sherlock got a peculiar gleam in his pale eyes. “Now? I mean … like this?”

 

“Swallow or talk?” John asked him directly.

 

“Oh...” Sherlock said, scrabbling toward John without any of his usual grace, where he immediately began to lick small circles around the head of John's penis with his pointed tongue.

 

Above him, John groaned, and Sherlock closed his eyes in pleasure. He could still taste a hint of musk and John's shower gel, but soon... His head was yanked back roughly, and Sherlock gave a lust-filled moan.

 

“ _No_... no games,” John panted, with some effort. “Just open your mouth. The next time you can … take as much time... as you want.”

 

Obediently, Sherlock opened his mouth, and with a sigh of relief, John shoved his stiff erection between his lips and began fucking his mouth and throat with hard, indiscriminate thrusts, to which Sherlock had absolutely no objections. He was just starting to enjoy the rough treatment when it was over. Somewhat disappointed, Sherlock registered the brief pause, the almost impossible additional swelling of the glans on his tongue, and then … the first shot! Bitter, sour, and altogether John!

 

Sherlock licked and swallowed, wanting to savour it as long as possible, but even as he was climaxing, John withdrew from the willing mouth and deposited the last dregs on Sherlock's lips and chin. Sherlock tried to catch as much as he could with his tongue, but John stopped him.

 

“Leave it,” he ordered breathlessly. “Lie on your back. Pull your knees up … legs apart.”

 

Shaky fingers reached for the end of the plug and pulled it out of Sherlock's opening with a twisting motion. Sherlock felt his muscles clench on emptiness, and then something warm and viscous dribbled out of him. He sought John's eyes, waiting for instructions, hoping for relief, but John was staring between Sherlock's legs as if hypnotised. When he finally lifted his eyes to meet Sherlock's, there was a wildness there – as well as a surreal peace – that took Sherlock's breath away.

 

“Mine,” John whispered hoarsely, wrapping his fingers around Sherlock's hard cock.

 

John's gaze kept jumping from Sherlock's smeary face to the wet trickle that pulsed out of Sherlock's body with every twitch. It had never aroused him so much to take possession of his playmates in this way, to mark them as his property, to brand them. When Sherlock came over John's fingers a short time later with a sob of relief, John's hungry gaze took in the sight of the used and sullied body once more.

 

Sweat and semen gleamed on the pale skin, flushed with arousal, and although it might have been disgusting, Sherlock had never before looked so beautiful and so perfect to him as he did at that moment.

 

“You're gorgeous,” John said so quietly that he hoped Sherlock wouldn't hear him, as he knew Sherlock still had difficulty accepting compliments on his appearance; in fact, he hated hearing them. But John had to say it out loud, otherwise the words might have made his chest explode.

 

Sherlock didn't give any sign of having heard John, but inside, he glowed. For the first time in a very long time, he believed it might be the truth.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_When Sherlock was little, he hadn't personally minded his aunts and uncles ruffling his hair and remarking on his pretty face. It's just that he'd realised fairly early on that his brother took it the wrong way, even if he didn't let it show. And so Sherlock became impatient and flighty when it came to the affectionate caresses and flattery on the part of their relatives, in order not to give Mycroft a reason not to like him – at least not that reason._

 

_For a while it actually did get better, but then the cousins got older and decided they liked Sherlock's dark curls and pale eyes, and Mycroft had yet another reason to make sour faces._

 

_The whole situation was a source of stress for Sherlock. Especially since he didn't understand why no one admired Mycroft's looks and posture, but also because he didn't particularly like being doted on by his cousins. They were more Mycroft's age._

 

_Secretly, Sherlock suspected that if the touches and endearments had come from Cousin Todd, he didn't think he would have rejected them quite so brusquely. No matter how much stink-eye Mycroft gave him for it. But Cousin Todd only had eyes for one of the maids, and so Sherlock didn't dwell long on it._

 

_After Father died – and at the point when Sherlock finally gave up all hope of pleasing Mycroft – Sherlock suddenly became vain. Perhaps it was due to puberty or the desire to excel in an area in which Mycroft didn't (even though Sherlock secretly bemoaned the loss of his brother's freckles and would have loved to have some of his own) – as judged in completely objective and unambiguous terms._

 

_Mycroft's hair began to thin at the early age of twenty: an eternal source of grief that made him look covetously at Sherlock's full head of curls. Sherlock wasn't oblivious to the fact, which gave him a certain malicious pleasure and led to him spending hours in front of the mirror, arranging his hair with comb and brush until it framed his narrow face in a perfect state of dishevelment._

 

_A husky build and a weakness for sweets were Mycroft's second Achilles heel, and here too, Sherlock stepped on it whenever he could – with pleasure._

 

_As soon as he noticed that Mycroft had started another diet and wasn't taking any dessert, Sherlock would always take a second or even third serving, despite the fact that he didn't even like sweets that much. But he could eat as much as he wanted. His still-growing body and his metabolism saw to it that he didn't gain an ounce._

 

_It was also during this time that Sherlock started wearing tight, body-conscious shirts and trousers in conspicuous colours, earning him approving looks from all of their aunts and cousins and causing Mycroft to grind his teeth. Or at least Sherlock hoped he did._

 

_Mycroft had already taken to wearing three-piece suits in muted colours. His excuse was his job and his ambitions for a career in politics. But Sherlock knew better. The waistcoat and fob chain hid a few extra pounds here and there, and the well cut trousers and jackets were stylish, lending Mycroft dignity and even something approaching charisma._

 

_But next to Sherlock's peacock-like appearance in his flamboyant attire, Mycroft was nothing more than a grey mouse. Sherlock preened at the compliments and enjoyed the attention at his brother's cost to the fullest._

 

_Things went on like that until the day Sherlock overheard a conversation in the library of his first university. The conversation was revealing in more than one respect. It gave him a new perspective on himself, and something he'd never even considered came to light: his fellow students found him unattractive._

 

_It turned out that everything that had ever been said to him was a lie. The pretty compliments were just empty words in order to get what those people really wanted: sexual gratification with no strings attached._

 

_When Sherlock stood in front of the mirror that night, he could no longer see the tall, wiry, young man with the pale, delicate skin who had winked at him that morning... instead, the person looking back at him had the build of a beanstalk, was gangly and skinny and had the pasty complexion of a couch potato._

 

_Ashamed and horrified, he turned his back on the image in the mirror._

 

_Everyone had lied to him. Everyone must have lied to him. Not just here at university. Everyone had lied to him because they must have sensed that this was his Achilles heel: his hunger for recognition, praise, and handsome compliments. But they'd all just wanted something else altogether: sex, the answers to the homework, an 'in' with his father, or to make their fiancé jealous by flirting with cousin Sherlock..._

 

_Sherlock could have added items to the list ad infinitum, but he preferred to take a deep draught from the vodka bottle he kept hidden between his gym shoes._

 

_It was all a lie... his whole life, nothing but lies._

 

_That wasn't going to happen to him anymore. He was never going to fall for fancy words again... never going to believe bald-faced flattery._

 

_But he didn't want to think about that anymore right now. Now he just wanted to sleep. To sleep and … to forget that he was a freak in the eyes of everyone else._

 

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

“How many people have you killed?” Sherlock asked, tracing invisible patterns on John's bare chest with his fingers.

 

They were lying in bed together, with Sherlock on his stomach in order to spare his bottom, which was still sore and red where John had hit him with the riding crop – even if he was quite enjoying the throbbing echo of the pain. His head was resting half on John's shoulder, and his fingers inscribed circles around John's scar.

 

“And what did you use? Knives? Guns? Or did you go for the old mob classic, _cement blocks in the Thames_?” Sherlock continued guilelessly. He'd wanted to ask John the question for a while now, but the time had never felt right. Sherlock was so curious, though! The thought that John held the power of life and death in his hands caused a peculiar tingly feeling in his abdomen.

 

John suddenly fell still beside him. Unnaturally still. Sherlock lifted his head to look at him, but John had already pushed him away and left the bed.

 

“John?” Sherlock asked. He had a bad feeling. “What is it?”

 

“I have to go.” John picked up his discarded articles of clothing and pulled them on. He kept his back to Sherlock the whole time.

 

“Then...” A line appeared between Sherlock's eyebrows. “Oh...” He slowly began to realise that was perhaps not the best time to ask that particular question. “Not good?” he asked uncertainly.

 

“Bit not good.” John gave him a small, forced smile over his shoulder. “And you realised it a bit late.”

 

Fear stretched its icy fingers out toward Sherlock. John was leaving. John was leaving him. Was he going to come back? Or had he ruined everything with his thoughtless questions? Of course he had! What else! After all, he was known for ruining everything for himself. He cast about frantically for something to say – something that would make John stay.

 

“John... I'm...” _sorry_ , he wanted to say, but the words refused to form on his lips.

 

“Don't...” _go_ – but his vocal cords striked here as well.

 

“Come...” _back_ – the word stuck in his throat.

 

“Are you going to come back?” he finally managed. His voice sounded raw. He'd asked John that very same question way back at the beginning. It had been much easier then. Why was that? Had there not been so much riding on it? Was there now? Sherlock wasn't sure himself.

 

John already had his hand on the door handle when Sherlock's words reached him. They sounded like the desperate screams of a drowning man to his ears. He shook his head as if to shake the thought off. It wasn't possible to drown in a bed! Still, he hesitated – and turned around again. Just to make sure that Sherlock's face displayed the usual passive, controlled expression it had in situations like this. But rather than the resignation and acceptance he generally found in those pale features when Sherlock realised he'd gone too far, John saw the first cracks in the mask of forbearance, and behind that - naked desperation and fear.

 

Sherlock took note of his hesitation and whispered uncertainly, “John?”

 

John really had meant to go. To leave the room. As for how long it would have been before he returned – he didn't really want to think about it. But he wasn't armed against that pleading look in those pale eyes, in complete opposition to Sherlock's composed posture. He'd promised himself – and Sherlock – that he would never hurt him without a reason. If he left now without saying anything, Sherlock would be hurt. John knew that as well as he knew that the sky was blue and the grass was green.

 

Was Sherlock's curiosity enough reason to punish him with his absence and silence? John wasn't sure about that. The time he spent with Sherlock had become a kind of refuge for him. A bubble outside of reality, where he wasn't _Doc Watson_ , but just _John_. Sherlock had destroyed that bubble with his question, and made it impossible for John to continue to see this place as the safe harbour he'd dubbed it in his thoughts. Doc Watson and John had become one again, thanks to Sherlock's question.

 

“I've done things I'm not especially proud of,” John began abruptly, surprising no one more than himself with his words. “But that's part of it all. And it's usually easier for me than it should be.”

 

“I don't care,” Sherlock answered, his eyes burning.

 

“I know...” John said flatly. “I know. Still, I'm not going to talk about those things. Got it?”

 

“I didn't want...” Sherlock began, but that wasn't what John wanted to hear from him at the moment.

 

“Have you got it?!” he repeated sharply.

 

Sherlock's eyes went round. “Yes,” he said, troubled.

 

“Good,” John concluded. “I'll … ring.”

 

Sherlock nodded, and appeared so lost that John felt the overwhelming urge to go to him and kiss him … to assure him that everything was fine... that he wasn't angry at him… could never be angry … at least not for long...

 

“I'll ring,” he repeated instead. “I promise.” Then he left.

 

He only got as far as the stairs before he regretted his decision to leave Sherlock so precipitously. But he forced himself to ignore the ridiculous impulse to turn around and comfort Sherlock, instead continuing on his way. The best thing – or perhaps even the right thing – would have been never to get involved with the man in the first place. But it was too late for such insights. He would always return to Sherlock's open arms. Even though he knew the impossible wanker was going to continue to do or say things that rubbed him the wrong way – in his own unique, direct, un-sugarcoated, and naïve way. Maybe that was the secret to his fascination, to the attraction that he exercised over John? That whatever he said, it was never calculated, or at least it was never meant to hurt anyone? That in and of itself was a feat, as most of what Sherlock said could be quite hurtful – or at least could be taken that way.

 

So why had John reacted with such anger just now? By the time he left the brothel, he wasn't so sure himself anymore.

 

John didn't even consider the fact that his entire train of thought was based on the assumption that Sherlock's arms would always be open for him as long as he wanted them to be. He never considered that Sherlock would ever reject him … he took it for granted that – as long as John paid him – he would never do that. For John, it was more a question of when he would get sick of Sherlock. At the moment, it didn't seem possible, but John knew from painful experience that no one would ever be able to tie him down forever. Sherlock wasn't going to be any different. Although he did allow himself to hope that it would take quite a while before he got bored with Sherlock, because at the moment he was enjoying his life as he hadn't enjoyed it in a very long time.

 

Whistling cheerfully, he went out to his car.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

One morning, John awoke and wished Sherlock were there with him, taking care of his morning wood under the covers.

 

One evening, John sat alone in his living room and wondered what it would be like if Sherlock were beside him on the couch, nibbling on his earlobe... how it would be if he only needed to call for him in order to have him whenever he felt like it.

 

One day at lunch, he sat at his desk eating a sandwich and thought it might be more entertaining to sit in the dining room with Sherlock and listen to his oddball remarks.

 

One night, he lay awake in bed and listened to the silence in the house, which seemed to become more suffocating with every passing minute.

 

Annoyed and restless, he pounded his pillow and turned it over in an attempt to find a cool spot. It was no longer enough to be able to see Sherlock whenever he wanted. It was cumbersome to always have to drive over to the brothel, take his pleasure, and then have to decide whether he wanted to shower there or drive back home all sweaty, where he would end up standing alone in the shower, and …

 

No.

 

There was no question, this state of things couldn't continue any longer. He was a busy man and he didn't want to invest any more of his valuable time in organising his sex life.

 

His decision was made.

 

He'd bring Sherlock home with him.

 

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Next morning, when Mike was going through the schedule for the next few days with him, John asked, “What's on for the day after tomorrow?”

 

Mike leafed through his notes and checked his calendar before answering. “Wednesday … hmm... We need to have a chat with our _committee_ for the mayoral elections in the morning... You're meeting our contact for Bolivia for lunch at _'Le Chat Noir'_ … In the afternoon...”

 

“All right, all right,” John interrupted him curtly. “No time for myself again, in other words.”

 

“Well... If you just wanted to squeeze in a quickie...” Mike replied with a grin, but didn't complete the sentence once he saw that John's barometer was signalling a _storm front_. “Friday looks a lot better … I could...”

 

But John didn't let him finish.

 

“Listen, Mike,” he said with deliberate patience. “I don't care how you finagle things, but I want a window of two hours by Thursday at the latest.”

 

Mike groaned.

 

“John – really. I can't. There's just no way.”

 

John took a deep, noisy breath. “I don't believe I asked whether there was a way or not,” he retorted sharply. “I gave you an order and I expect you to carry it out.”

 

Mike reassured himself with a quick glance that his friend didn't have a weapon on him at the moment. “These are very important meetings. I admit things have been hellish the past few days – but sometimes that's just how it is. You've been with Sherlock practically every other day for eight weeks now – ever since you've had him exclusively... You were just there for three hours yesterday. Why do you have to go over there again so soon?”

 

“That's none of your business.”

 

“Why do I even ask? John – there's no way I'm about to toss your entire schedule just so you can fool around with Sherlock some more.”

 

“I don't want to _fool around_ with him.”

 

“You don't?”

 

“No.”

 

“Then what do you want to do?”

 

“I want to buy him off Miss Adler.”

 

Following this declaration, John had the satisfaction of Mike staring at him for an entire minute with his mouth and eyes gaping open.

 

“Have you gone completely insane?” Mike finally croaked. “You want to buy a hooker?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“And where are you going to put him?”

 

“What do you mean where am I going to put him? He's going to live here,” John answered calmly. “And you're never going to see me in a bad mood again. Because he'll always be here when I need him.”

 

“Here,” Mike echoed flatly. Then he shook his head and yelled, “You can't bring a hooker into this house!”

 

“Do you remember that meeting two weeks ago? When I was late and didn't want to tell you why? And you automatically assumed it was something filthy?” John asked in a challenging manner.

 

Mike nodded reluctantly, certain that he was about to be given a watertight argument … and he was right.

 

“I fell asleep,” John said. “Just like that. After we had sex. Out like a light. Do you have any idea how much all this driving around takes out of me? I even considered leaving some clothes over there so I'd have something clean to put on if I wanted to drop in on him between meetings.” He took a deep breath. “And before I start setting up house in a brothel...”

 

Mike shook his head. “John. Take some more time to think about this. The guy's a prostitute. He's going to fleece you. Like an angora sweater.”

 

“So what? At least I can afford it,” John declared with a bitter smile. “Do you remember Cedric? What he cost me? Or that Swedish model, that Lars... my God – was he high maintenance! And none of them were as good as Sherlock in bed. What's the difference, I ask you? They all only wanted my money – but with Sherlock at least everyone agrees on it from the start.”

 

“It's not healthy how obsessed you are with this bloke,” Mike said in a last attempt to dissuade John from his plans.

 

“I want him. And I'm going to have him,” John stated stubbornly. “And you're going to get me those two hours from somewhere.”

 

Mike lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Fine – have it your way. I'll just make the impossible possible once again, shall I? You'll see what happens. You're not going to listen to me. But … when things do go belly-up with this Sherlock … can I at least say _'I told you so'_?”

 

“You will anyway, whether I give you permission or not,” John answered placidly. “And set up a couple of appointments for him with my tailor... he'll need a few nice suits.”

 

“And here we go,” Mike said, sighing heavily. “He's not even here yet and you're already spending money on him. What's it going to be like when...”

 

“Mike … he's never asked me for anything the whole time.”

 

Mike looked both surprised and thoughtful. “Never? That's... unusual. He's probably just waiting until he's got the big fish on the hook, though.”

 

“So what if he is?” John said coolly. “At least I'll get something for my money _this time_ , other than excuses like _'not tonight, my arse still hurts from yesterday'_.”

 

Mike sighed and set about combing through John's diary for alternate meeting times to offer to the various contacts. After a while, he raised his head and noticed that John was staring out the window, completely lost in thought.

 

“John?”

 

John started a little before turning to him. “Yeah? What is it?”

 

Mike didn't know how to formulate the question he wanted to ask his friend. “John... if you have Sherlock living here … I mean...” He kicked himself and went on more firmly: “Don't you think it might make a better use of your time to find someone who...”

 

John laughed bitterly. “You mean instead of spending so much time fucking Sherlock I should look for a _real_ boyfriend? A relationship?”

 

Mike nodded soberly, and the sad expression in his eyes made John so uncomfortable he had to look away. “Mike... I've come to terms with the fact that what I want simply doesn't exist in this world. And you should too.”

 

“I just want you to be... you know...” Mike shrugged his shoulders. “Happy.”

 

“Happy.” John made sure to snort derisively at that. “I'll never be as happy as you and Susan anyway. And taking the two of you as the measure, then Sherlock is the second best thing I could ever hope to find. At least he satisfies all of my physical needs.”

 

“Sex isn't everything in life.”

 

“Maybe. But sex is everything I can expect from this life,” John said coldly, forcing himself not to look forward too much to the time when his house wouldn't be so quiet at night.

 

Even if he didn't intend to allow Sherlock into his bed all the time, there would still be the sound of another person breathing in the dark somewhere.

 

 _'If he snores, I'll kill him,_ ' John thought fleetingly before recalling the feeling of another heartbeat against his ear … how good it had felt to fall asleep to the sound of that thumping … to simply let go... Somehow, it had been worth being late to his meeting.

 

But he'd better not tell Mike that. He'd either bring up that psychiatrist again or he'd say he didn't like this obsession with Sherlock because it was cutting off any other chances he might have.

 

John rolled his eyes to himself. What did Mike know about the joys of anal sex anyway … or about the lonely nights in the big house?

 

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_**To be continued...** _

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

 

Parachutes are a real thing (I can't make everything up) …

<http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41rEvQulPVL._SL500_SS120_.jpg>

 

There are 'harmless' ones and ones with spikes. There are also different kinds of spikes. I think the metal ones would be pretty nasty. That's why I decided on the softer, plastic kind for this story. So they would be like longish nubs with rounded ends.

 

You can see here approximately how it would look:

<http://www.princessyara.com/deutsch/bilder/gross/c2.jpg>

Sadly... the link is broken...

(the one I thought of when writing this scene... According to the description it should be made of rubber and plastic, which seems more hygienic to me than all that leather...)

But here is something similar...

<http://www.fetters.co.uk/toys-accessories/cock-ball-toys/dull-spike-parachute/>

 

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

And I made another picset!

[http://lorelei-lee.tumblr.com/post/118850743814/teaser-for-chapter-16-of-deflowered-directors](https://webmail.xch.fraunhofer.de/owa/redir.aspx?SURL=KfXCbbBmTT67vuX3_IvA7fVu7BMNsmX_6qQykal4zBTNoDeXRVzSCGgAdAB0AHAAOgAvAC8AbABvAHIAZQBsAGUAaQAtAGwAZQBlAC4AdAB1AG0AYgBsAHIALgBjAG8AbQAvAHAAbwBzAHQALwAxADEAOAA4ADUAMAA3ADQAMwA4ADEANAAvAHQAZQBhAHMAZQByAC0AZgBvAHIALQBjAGgAYQBwAHQAZQByAC0AMQA2AC0AbwBmAC0AZABlAGYAbABvAHcAZQByAGUAZAAtAGQAaQByAGUAYwB0AG8AcgBzAA..&URL=http%3A%2F%2Florelei-lee.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F118850743814%2Fteaser-for-chapter-16-of-deflowered-directors)

 

 

 


	17. Negotiations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation by the amazing [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/profile)

**Chapter 17: Negotiations**

 

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

“Come in,” Irene replied to the knock at her door and folded her hands on her desk. She made an effort to hide the curiosity that had come over her the moment Doc Watson made this appointment. She half expected him to appear with a bodyguard, but he was alone when he entered the office and closed the door behind himself.

 

“Good morning, Mr Watson,” she greeted him with a broad, friendly smile. “Please... have a seat.” With an elegant wave of her hand, she indicated the chair in front of her desk. He nodded once and sat down.

 

He didn't seem to want to begin speaking right away, so Irene leaned back, crossed her legs and let her hands rest easily on the arm-rests of her chair.

 

“To what do I owe the honour of this visit?” she began the conversation in an obliging tone.

 

John Watson folded his hands in his lap and pursed his lips for a moment before leaning back as well and saying, “I'd like to do you a favour.”

 

Irene hadn't expected that. “A favour? For me?” She quickly got her surprise under control. “You're too good to me, _Doc_ ,” she warbled in a sweet, dark voice. “Whatever did I do to draw your kind attention my way?”

 

“Nothing,” John replied with a friendly smile that was frosted with ice.

 

“Nothing,” Irene repeated flatly. The first creases showed on her forehead. “Mr Watson – you're speaking in riddles. I'm afraid I don't understand...”

 

“I want to free you of the need to concern yourself with Sherlock any longer,” John declared abruptly.

 

“Free?” Her mistrust was now aroused, although she made every effort not to let it show. That could be dangerous when dealing with Doc Watson. “If he's displeased you in any way, I'm certain we can find some other way to take care of it than ...”

 

John unfolded his hands, showing his annoyance and disbelief with the gesture. “Why does everyone automatically think I'm talking about murder whenever I...” He took a deep breath. “I simply want to propose a business deal.”

 

“A deal?” Irene asked. “But you already have exclusive rights to Sherlock, what...”

 

“I want to buy Sherlock from you.”

 

“You want to _what_?!” Irene blurted out, only to bite her lips a second later. How could she have reacted so rashly? Although it was a rather surprising announcement. She'd realised long ago that Doc Watson was head over heels for Sherlock and wasn't about to give him up. She was almost counting on a happy end with a proposal of some sort... but for it to be a business proposal instead of marriage ... that was unexpected. No matter – she was the last person to stand in the way of Sherlock's happiness.

 

“I want to buy him out from the brothel,” John confirmed serenely. “How much do you want for him?”

 

“No, Mr Watson … I can't …” Irene actually intended to explain to John that there was nothing to buy out, as Sherlock didn't belong to anyone other than himself, but he didn't let her finish.

 

“How much, Miss Adler?” he reiterated with an exaggerated sigh. “Name your price. I can't promise I won't try to bargain with you, but I think you'll find I'm feeling generous today. I'm also well aware that Sherlock's debt with you will probably drive the price up.”

 

Irene's eyes grew round. “Debt?” she asked, deadpan. “All right. What has he been telling you?”

 

John observed her in a detached manner. “Not much. He only mentioned once that he owed you something.” John sat up straighter in his chair and leaned forward. His voice sank to a threatening whisper. “I know it's extremely ill-advised of me to say this … but I want to see him free and clear of your painted claws … no matter the cost.”

 

Irene gave up trying to correct him. She wasn't so presumptuous as to insist on pointing out where a crimelord was wrong. Doc Watson wanted to unload his money here. A lot of money. She wasn't going to stand in his way.

 

She named a price. John Watson's left eyelid flickered only slightly. Then he drew out his cheque-book.

 

As he was writing, she leaned back in her chair, grinning like the cat who got both the canary _and_ the cream.

 

“Don't look so grim, Doc. For the price of a smile I'll introduce you to the new Columbian ambassador later this week. It might be useful to you.”

 

“As if I needed your help,” John remarked snidely, handing her the filled-out cheque.

 

She took it, gloating shamelessly over all the zeroes. That holiday home on the coast was as good as paid for.

 

“Sherlock must be excited.” She beamed at John.

 

“He doesn't know yet,” John said as he stood.

 

“You... you haven't even asked him?” Irene said, dumbfounded, as she blinked. “He doesn't even know that you...”

 

“No, of course not. Why should I have?” John asked with a distinct lack of concern.

 

“Well, I … don't know...” Irene giggled nervously. John sent her a look that was slightly perplexed for all that it was calculating. “So he doesn't know what your plans are for him? No, of course not. What exactly are your plans for him? I mean... where are you going to take him?”

 

John spread his hands again in exasperation. “Why does everyone ask me where I'm going to take him? I'm taking him home with me, of course. Where else? A dungeon? A harem? For heaven's sake...”

 

Irene realised she'd overdone it, and hurried to calm John Watson with a quick smile. “Then I'm sure you'll want to give him the good news right away,” she said. Although she made an effort not to let her true feelings show, it was clear that she had strong doubts as to whether it would be good news to Sherlock. “I'll get him. Wait here, please.” She stood up rather abruptly. Maybe she could smooth the way if she spoke to Sherlock alone first...

 

“No – please... don't trouble yourself. Just tell me where I can find him, and I'll...” John bit his lip and actually appeared to be embarrassed for a moment. “I'll let him know what he should pack.”

 

Irene had to surrender in the face of that statement. It was no longer possible to warn Sherlock what was coming. And for that reason, she really didn't want to get into an argument with the mob boss. She told him the way to Sherlock's apartment, and he thanked her.

 

“Well, then... good luck.” She sent John off with obvious doubt in her voice, which only caused him to frown in bewilderment.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

John finally stood in front of the door to Sherlock's apartment, closed his eyes for a moment and imagined how overjoyed and grateful Sherlock would be. A nice, warm feeling spread through him, calming the nervous fluttering in his stomach somewhat. It had been like that for the past two days – sometimes stronger, sometimes weaker – and the sensation had only increased after hearing the doubtful undertone in Miss Adler's voice.

 

He rapped once sharply on the door and then opened it without waiting for an answer. He took one step forward, only to freeze in the middle of the next one, rooted to the spot.

 

John didn't know what he'd expected, but it certainly wasn't this.

 

Books lying open on tables and chairs, overflowing ashtrays, stale air, piles of clothes on the floor, a dried-out plant on the windowsill. And smack in the middle of the chaos: Sherlock. Sherlock, wearing a pair of striped pyjama bottoms and a stretched-out t-shirt, sitting cross-legged on his bed with a laptop balanced on his knees. Sherlock, with two days' worth of stubble on his cheeks and his eyes widened in horror, looking ridiculously young – nothing at all like the worldly prostitute John had first met several months ago.

 

An astonishingly squeaky ' _John_?', sounding nothing at all like Sherlock's normal, deep baritone, finally tore him out of his stupor.

 

“You smoke?” was the first thing it occurred to John to say.

 

“I'm trying to stop.” Sherlock's defence came so quickly it sounded practised.

 

“Charming place you have here,” John remarked dryly before remembering just why he was here and ordering abruptly: “Pack your things. We're leaving.” The sooner he got Sherlock out of this pigsty, the better.

 

But rather than flinging his arms around John's neck in joy, Sherlock remained hunkered down on his unmade bed, regarding John with suspicion.

 

“Where?” he asked with cool reserve.

 

The question threw John for a loop. On the other hand, Sherlock had every right to know where he'd be living from now on. Maybe he was just too surprised to express his happiness openly.

 

John cleared his throat. “To mine, of course. My house. I've just bought you free,” he explained, waiting for the outburst of elation … which still didn't appear after several moments.

 

Sherlock gave him an appraising look before turning his attention back to the laptop in front of him.

 

“No,” he said simply.

 

“Fine, then...” John stopped. He'd been so sure Sherlock would say ' _yes_ ' the moment he opened his mouth, but had he really just heard...

 

“WHAT?!” John cried out incredulously. “ _No_? But...”

 

Sherlock raised his head to look at him as if in slow motion, and John fell silent. There it was again – the utter lack of fear he admired so in this young man. But why did it always come out at the least suitable moment? Why didn't the wanker just go along with it, even if he wasn't exactly jumping for joy?

 

“Which part of ' _no_ ' did you not understand?” Sherlock asked with icy politeness. “Anyway, you didn't call. You didn't wait for me to ask you in. You simply showed up here, thinking you could buy and sell me according to your whims, ordering me about however you please? Did you ever consider for _one_ moment that you might ask MY OPINION about the whole thing?!” He held John's gaze, unfazed. “That might have spared you some measure of humiliation. Don't you think?” Sherlock took a deep breath, and his lower lip began to tremble. His cool superiority floundered a bit, and judging by the way he was biting his lip, he knew it too. “You'll probably want to cancel all of the arrangements and agreements you've made with me. Don't bother. Just say whatever you need to and get your money back from Irene. I won't stop you.”

 

John listened to the entire sermon in a state of speechlessness. When Sherlock was apparently finished, he burst out, “When exactly did they fill your brain with shit? What the hell is going on here?! I've bought you out, and you're giving me my marching papers?! Three days ago you were completely normal!”

 

Sherlock stuck his chin out defiantly, but despite his belligerent attitude, John saw the moisture glittering in his pale eyes.

 

John squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, making a concerted effort to maintain his composure. Then he opened his eyes again, focused on Sherlock, and pointed straight at him. Sherlock's bottom lip was still trembling, and he'd turned pale. He wasn't even able to look at John anymore. He turned his head to the side and moved the laptop away.

 

“You... don't you dare start crying!” John yelled, agitated. “Look at me when I talk to you. Look at me and tell me – to my face! - tell me you don't want to come with me.” John couldn't have handled tears right now … his self-control was hanging by a thread as it was. If he saw tears running down Sherlock's cheeks on top of everything else, he'd jump on him and rip every shred of clothing off his body. Why the hell did tears have to have such an arousing effect on him?

 

Sherlock, having no inkling of John's inner struggle, shook his head. He still wouldn't look at John.

 

“I can't,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “I can't. God, I wish I could!” he cried out loudly before letting his head sink even lower.

 

“You- you _can't_?” John pressed in bewilderment. “Of course you can! Did you not understand me? I took care of everything with Miss Adler. You're free. All of this...” John's eyes swept through the room, not able to find the right words. “You can leave all of this anytime you want,” he said. “Anytime.” He waited a moment. When there was no response from Sherlock, he asked, unnerved, “Are you crying? Do you need a handkerchief?” He took a monogrammed handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and held it out to Sherlock, somewhat awkwardly.

 

“No,” Sherlock said in a choked voice. John sighed.

 

Somehow this wasn't going the way he'd planned … or expected. He looked at his watch. There were only forty minutes left of the precious two hours Mike had carved out of his schedule. He went over to the unmade bed and sat down gingerly on the edge.

 

Sherlock finally looked up. His eyes were damp and reddened, but he wasn't crying.

 

John continued to hold out his handkerchief to him. “Here.”

 

Sherlock looked at the handkerchief as if it were about to bite him, but in the end he took it.

 

“Why are you still here?” he asked. He almost sounded angry.

 

“I'm not going to leave without you,” John said calmly. “I bought you. You belong to me.”

 

“I'll consider that a rumour,” Sherlock snorted with a laugh that didn't sound happy at all.

 

John shrugged his shoulders. “What can I say? Miss Adler took my money without any complaints.”

 

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. “Oh really? Did she?” John nodded. “She took you to the cleaners.”

 

John raised an eyebrow. “So what if she did?” he retorted. “The fact is, she let you go and I don't understand why you aren't already packing your bags!”

 

Sherlock caught John's gaze and held it firmly, took a deep breath and then spoke to him as if to a small child: “Because... I... can't.”

 

“Sherlock...” John scrubbed his face with both hands. “I'm telling you: everything's taken care of. And when I say _everything_ , I mean _everything_. I told her she should add your debts to the price. Which she did. I don't know how much it was – or what you actually owed her – and I don't care... but if there's anything else, then tell me. If she still has anything on you … tell me and I promise I'll make it go away.”

 

Sherlock sucked in his lower lip and shook his head tiredly. “I don't owe Irene any money,” he said, to John's great surprise. “You just assumed that and I... never corrected you.” He took a deep breath before giving John a soft yet aching look. “I owe her something that neither you nor I can ever repay. I owe her my life.”

 

“Your life?”

 

Sherlock took another deep breath. John recognised it as his way of giving himself courage. When Sherlock spoke again, his voice had a hard, metallic edge to it, and although he was looking straight at John, it was as if his gaze were turned inward.

 

“I lived on the street, John. I used drugs in order to be able to stand it, and I sucked anyone and anything that was put in my mouth to pay for my habit. I'd hit rock bottom.” He paused, bit his lower lip again, and then continued, a bit softer: “And I didn't care. I wouldn't have survived the next winter... I didn't care about that either. And then... then Irene found me and took me in. She... saved me. As clichéd as that might sound.” Sherlock crumpled John's handkerchief between his fingers, then smoothed it out on his thigh, only to crumple it up again.

 

John didn't know what to say. He wracked his brain for some clue to that part of Sherlock's past, but the answers to the inquiries he'd sent out all those months ago had apparently been incomplete... of course there'd been a gaping hole between the last day of university and the day he'd purchased the rights to Sherlock's virginity in the auction, but John simply hadn't considered that a drug-addicted homeless person might be hiding in there. He was ashamed to admit that he simply hadn't given any further thought to the gap in the files at his disposal – which included police records.

 

He looked at Sherlock with new eyes. What else was Sherlock keeping from him? And did he really want to know? There was one thing, though, that he wanted to set straight.

 

“She picked you up and took you in? Just like that?” John asked lightly.

 

“Yes, she...”

 

“She knew you,” John reasoned.

 

Sherlock was silent, but he bowed his head.

 

“Yes,” he finally admitted after several moments.

 

“That means... she never forced you into anything?” John probed further.

 

“What?” Sherlock's head jerked up. “Oh, no...” he declared, laughing as if the mere thought were utterly absurd. “I'm here of my own free will. Irene wouldn't have the power to force me into anything. Not even to talk me into it.”

 

John's thoughts were whirling like buzzing bees inside his head. Nearly everything he thought he knew about Sherlock had been turned inside-out in the matter of a few minutes.

 

“So... the auction was also your idea?”

 

Sherlock shrugged hesitantly, making it appear like a gesture of embarrassment. “What can I say … I was bored and I wanted to contribute something to my upkeep.”

 

“You were... you wanted to...” John murmured in shock, staring at Sherlock for several seconds with his mouth hanging open. Then he barked out a short, indignant laugh. “You are really something else.” He shook his head before turning sombre again. “Why did you stay here? I mean, if she didn't have anything to hold over you, why are you still here? Why?”

 

The more relaxed mood disappeared as quickly and as suddenly as it had come. Sherlock twisted John's handkerchief between his fingers again.

 

“For the same reason I was living on the streets, and the same reason I can't come with you,” Sherlock answered dully.

 

John licked his upper lip in thought before reaching for Sherlock's hand, which was busy smoothing out the handkerchief again.

 

“But... you _do_ _want_ to come with me?”

 

Sherlock let his eyes fall slowly shut. “God, yes,” he whispered with barely masked sadness before raising his chin again in a sign of resolve. When he opened his eyes again to look at John, there once again was that calm, resigned acceptance that would always remain a mystery to John. “John, there's no sense in all this. Please, go... don't torture me any longer.” His face bore no hint of his inner conflict, betrayed only by the slight quaver in his voice.

 

“No,” John said firmly. “No – Sherlock … no matter what's out there … no matter what you're afraid of, no matter who's threatening you... don't you think _I_ might be in the best position to protect you?”

 

A sad, disbelieving smile passed across Sherlock's lips.

 

“Sherlock, you can't expect me to believe that you think this brothel – no disrespect to Miss Adler, but – that this brothel can keep you safe at all?”

 

Sherlock tilted his head to one side and opened his mouth as if he were about to speak, only to snap it shut again. His eyes narrowed, and he observed John silently for several moments. John could practically see the cogs turning in Sherlock's brain, but they were moving slowly – unusually slowly.

 

Hesitantly, Sherlock opened his mouth once again, and this time John encouraged him to speak with a small nod.

 

“I've enjoyed a certain anonymity here,” Sherlock stated, his head still tilted in thought. John remained silent, waiting, and after what seemed like an eternity, Sherlock resumed speaking: “The danger is that that will change if I were to … live with you.” The concept seemed to confuse him, as he paused a moment. “What I mean is: it's going to come out eventually that you have someone living with you. And from that moment forward, it won't be long until the rumours start over whom exactly you've brought home with you, and... that's exactly what I want to avoid at all costs. I've been quite successful up to now.” He sighed heavily. “No one cares about some old prostitute in a brothel. But the crimelord’s new hobby?” His gaze bored into John. “Tell me I'm wrong.”

 

“I can't,” John admitted. “People are going to be interested in you. But... that doesn't matter! You're safe with me. As safe as houses. No one, absolutely no one, is allowed in my house without being checked over first. The property is guarded and kept under surveillance. I have an army of bodyguards on my payroll. Did you really think I of all people wouldn't have any enemies myself?” John laughed bitterly.

 

Sherlock's forehead creased. “You always come here alone, without...” His gaze wandered to the door as if he expected to see a heavily armed guard standing behind it. He blushed faintly and turned back to John.

 

John shrugged his shoulders in good-natured resignation. “What can I say? I'm an idiot, always acting on my whims – anyone can tell you that.” He made a dramatic pause. “I shoot faster and more accurately than any of my enemies. But in order to confirm that, you're going to have to take a survey at the graveyard,” he concluded with a cynical grin only one step removed from bitterness. “Sherlock. Give me a name. Just the _name_. I'll make sure you never...”

 

Sherlock squeezed his fingers against John's hand for the first time. “I'm afraid that's beyond even your influence. Not that I don't think you have a great deal of it...” he added after a moment's consideration.

 

Lost in thought, John stroked the back of Sherlock's hand with his thumb. “Sherlock … I don't know the last time I showed such patience with another person. Probably never...” With his free hand, he lifted Sherlock's chin and looked deep into his eyes. “For the last time, Sherlock. Pack your things and come with me.”

 

When Sherlock returned his gaze silently and full of doubt, John closed the small distance between them and kissed him gently on his soft, plush lips. He felt Sherlock's sigh more than he heard it, and pulled back from him a bit.

 

Sherlock blinked and closed his eyes. “All right. I'll come with you.” He didn't seem very happy about it; more like a general after losing a battle. But then he straightened his back and opened his eyes again, boring his gaze into John's. “I'll come with you. Under two conditions,” he stated firmly.

 

Just as John was about to congratulate himself on his powers of persuasion, Sherlock succeeded in sweeping the rug out from under him with that single sentence.

 

“Conditions? I don't think I heard you right. Who do you think you are, trying to set conditions with me?! You are without a doubt the most insolent, bald-faced, impertinent little cocksucker I've ever...” A deep kiss – one he hadn't seen coming – choked off the end of his outburst.

 

Sherlock's tongue slid greedily into his mouth, danced around his own tongue, only to pull back and suckle at his lower lip, before they separated, breathing heavily.

 

“Because I'm not just the most impertinent, but also the best and hottest cocksucker you've ever met or ever will meet in your life,” Sherlock growled in a low, deep voice, reached straight between John's legs and licked at his earlobe. Sherlock's quicksilver motions and complete shamelessness never failed to fascinate and arouse John. This time was no exception – and before he knew what was happening, he felt Sherlock's fingers stimulating his half-hard cock through the material of his trousers.

 

“I should put you over my knee for that!” John hissed even as Sherlock nibbled at his neck, awakening the first lust-filled tingles in his groin. “All right. Two conditions. I'm listening,” he capitulated before he completely forgot himself in the face of the erotic onslaught and did something he didn't have any more time for - or made promises he'd certainly regret later.

 

With a narrow but self-satisfied grin, Sherlock let him go. “First: as soon as I set foot in your house, I'm not leaving it again. Not for anything, no matter what.”

 

John thought about that for a moment, but aside from appearing rather paranoid, he didn't see any disadvantage to himself. “All right,” he agreed.

 

“Second: you'll never ask me _why_ I'm hiding, or from _whom_ ,” Sherlock concluded his list of conditions.

 

“My God, where are we here? Lohengrin?” John erupted. “ _Never shall you ask_?” He shook his head in disbelief. “That's nonsense! Sherlock – I could help you.”

 

“No. You couldn't,” Sherlock repeated, both matter-of-fact and stubborn. “Not even you.”

 

John chewed sceptically on the inside of his cheek before tossing his arms up. “All right, fine! If that's the way you want it … then...” He took a deep breath. “Agreed.”

 

“Good,” Sherlock said, satisfied, and waved his hand as if ending an audience with a supplicant. “And now leave. You can pick me up tomorrow. I'll have packed by then.”

 

John later justified his obedient departure from Sherlock's chaotic living conditions with the fact that the forty minutes he'd allowed for the discussion with Sherlock had run out.

 

After John left, Sherlock stared at the closed door with a look of utter despondency.

 

Why in the world had he said ' _yes_ '?

 

Sherlock hated himself for being so weak and giving in to temptation – even though he knew that this was, in all probability, going to end in disaster.

 

His hand laid itself across his mouth of its own accord, his fingers cutting off the sound – half laugh, half sob – that came out of his throat.

 

He was going to live with John under the same roof! John wanted him so much he was taking him home with him!

 

How was it even possible that the fulfilling of his deepest, most secret desire – a life with John – bore with it the underlying threat of his worst nightmare – being found by the one person he couldn't afford to be found by?

 

' _Are you crying_?' John's voice echoed in his head. He let out a shaky laugh, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. Only then did he remember the handkerchief he was still holding in his hand. His expression relaxed and became softer.

 

Maybe he was going to get lucky for once in his life, and his fears would turn out to be nothing but figments of his imagination.

 

He shook his head grimly and kicked himself for being a sentimental fool.

 

Sherlock Sigerson and lucky? Sure. And maybe the earth was flat!

 

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_**To be continued....** _

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Picset!!

 

<http://lorelei-lee.tumblr.com/post/119665409789/teaser-for-deflowered-directors-cut-update>

 

 

 

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo


	18. Changes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation by the most awesome [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/profile)

**Chapter 18: Changes**

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

"I still think you should have made Irene give you back all the money," Sherlock remarked as John held the door to his house open for him.

 

"For the fifth time, Sherlock, let it go! We agreed on half, and anyway it's none of your business. It's still my money, and I can do what I want with it!" He followed Sherlock into the entry hall.

 

Sherlock stopped after just a few steps, taking in the impressive entryway with the curved staircase and the chandelier hanging from the high ceiling. John joined him, following his eyes.

 

"Nouveau-riche, overblown, and kitschy - I know," John admitted with a shrug and a laugh. "But there's no other way to get enough light into this draughty hall … at least not when it's dark out," he added, waving his hand in the direction of the large, full-length windows. It was morning, and the almost garish rays of the robust, springtime sun fell through the clear glass, reflecting so strongly in the black-and-white marble tiles on the floor that it was practically blinding.

 

Without saying a word, Sherlock allowed himself to absorb the effects of all the grandeur, his silent gaze flitting around the room. Strangely, the house was quite similar to his father's. Although the Holmesian residence had never been a loving haven for Sherlock, it hadn't exuded the air of emptiness which greeted Sherlock here - in John's home.

 

He shivered in spite of the warm, sunny spring day.

 

"You forgot showy and inappropriate," Sherlock said, nodding at the chandelier, and John laughed.

 

A young man in a demure yet dapper dark suit suddenly appeared out of nowhere before them to take John's coat, which he had slung over his arm due to the mild temperatures. The coat was then stowed in a closet next to the main door. The entire manoeuvre was done in silence, causing Sherlock to deduce that John had instructed his staff well and was no friend of unnecessary chatter.

 

Which brought Sherlock once again to the question of what exactly John saw in him … given how often his mouth ran away from his brain … or rather: how often his brain took his mouth hostage and sabotaged his self-preservation instinct.

 

The chauffeur who had driven them over entered the hall behind them, breathing heavily as he set Sherlock's bags down. There had ended up being three suitcases after all … most of the contents were books and other odds and ends. He'd kept very little of his clothing, a decision which he was now happy about. Jeans and t-shirts didn't seem appropriate for this environment. At least there was no need for John to be ashamed of his appearance today, as - in honour of the occasion - Sherlock was wearing the expensive suit Irene had bought for him back when John became his regular client.

 

On the other hand, he'd forgone the tie and left the top two buttons of his shirt undone. There was no reason to try to pretend at respectability when the entire household already knew their breadwinner had brought home a floozy. He might as well own up to it and show a little skin.

 

"Mr Watson? I'll bring the bags upstairs then," the young man said, speaking in muted tones. John simply nodded.

 

The man disappeared up the stairs with the first suitcase, leaving John and Sherlock alone once more.

 

"How many are there on your household staff?" Sherlock couldn't help asking, even as he remembered that John hated being called _'sir'_.

 

"Enough," John replied bluntly. "Come on - I'll show you the house."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

John took Sherlock on a tour of the house. The ground floor comprised rooms that served primarily business or sociable purposes. There was a spacious, multipurpose hall, an equally generously dimensioned dining room, and John's office wasn't exactly small either.

 

Sherlock couldn't deny his curiosity upon setting foot in the latter room. Whereas he'd kept his hands clasped behind his back up to this point, they now moved with a kind of restlessness … gliding over the soft leather of the seats, touching the smooth wooden surface of the desk, stroking the spines of the countless books … only to discover something.

 

"These are props!" Sherlock exclaimed, pulling out an entire row of false book covers that had been glued together.

 

John chuckled in amusement. "You're the first one to notice. Of course those are props. No one could read that much. These books here-" He indicated the shelf behind his desk. "-are the only ones that are real. Technical literature."

 

"Technical literature?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow and put the fake books back in their place.

 

"A couple of law compendiums … from other countries as well," John explained with a grin. "Some books on commercial law. A little on taxes … some chemistry and medicine... you know. The usual."

 

Sherlock inspected the rows of books with a certain disappointment that didn't go unnoticed.

 

"The real books are upstairs … you can read whatever you like from there," John told him. "But in here... there's nothing for you in here."

 

Sherlock's eyebrows rose in question, as if he didn't understand why.

 

"I don't want you snooping around my office," John explained firmly. "No matter if I'm in here or not. When I'm in here, I'm working and don't want to be disturbed. And when I'm not here, you have no business being in here anyway." He waited for a moment, but when Sherlock continued to give him a slightly puzzled look, John pursed his lips. "I don't want to see you in here. Not under any circumstances. Got it?"

 

"Yes," Sherlock said obediently. But even as the promise crossed his lips, he knew he'd never be able to keep it.

 

John led Sherlock out of his office to the curved staircase leading up to the first floor.

 

"Where are the kitchen and service areas?" Sherlock asked when they were halfway up the stairs. "And where do the staff live?"

 

"You don't need to bother with all that," John answered dismissively, although he did stop and point to a neutral door on the far end of the entry hall. "That's the way to the _servants' wing_." He made air quotes as he said it. "Kitchen, laundry, pantry, and so on downstairs. There are a couple of rooms and apartments upstairs that can be accessed by a separate entrance."

 

"The entire staff live here?" Sherlock asked, dumbfounded, and widened his eyes at John.

 

"No, of course not. Most of them have their own places with their families. But anyone who wants to can live here. They don't have to, though." John tilted his head from side to side as if qualifying his response. "Except the cook. It's important to me that she lives here."

 

"Why the cook in particular?"

 

Now it was John's turn to look dumbfounded. "Because I'm sometimes still hungry - or get hungry - late in the evening or in the middle of the night," he explained with a mischievous smile, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

 

Sherlock decided not to mention that John could also make his own omelette or sandwich, if that were the case.

 

"Does anyone else live here? Other than the cook?"

 

"Yeah, the gardener and one of the maids. My bodyguards switch off. One of them always sleeps here, though," John explained and continued up the stairs. "Sometimes Bridges, the chauffeur. Depends whether it's been a long day and if I'll need him again first thing in the morning."

 

Sherlock followed John the rest of the way up.

 

The first floor housed the more private quarters, including a roomy living space with two couches and two armchairs, a fireplace and a round dining table surrounded by four chairs. There was also a big television and an expensive stereo system. Two walls were filled with bookshelves.

 

Sherlock looked around, taking his time, absorbing the room and its atmosphere, and noted with pleasure that the oppressive emptiness of the rest of the house hadn't penetrated this space. Here was where John actually _lived_.

 

"Are these the real books?" Sherlock asked with a tentative smile as his fingers glided carefully along the shelves. Leather-bound books with faded gold lettering stood side-by-side with well-worn paperbacks.

 

"Yeah, those are real," John said, smiling as well. "You're free to use any of them - same as you're free to use anything in the house."

 

Sherlock was only listening to John with half an ear, so fascinated was he by the seemingly random selection of reading material John had accrued. Mysteries, coffee-table books, city guides, but also Dostoyevsky, medical textbooks, several of Shakespeare's works, and...

 

"Fairy tales? In German and Italian?" Astonishment and enthusiasm coloured Sherlock's voice as he took down both volumes from the shelf and paged through them.

 

"Yeah..." John scratched the back of his neck in embarrassment. "I started learning both languages at one point and thought... it might be easier with fairy tales." He shook his head. "I eventually realised I didn't have time for it and gave it up. Too bad, actually … I have lucrative business ties to both countries. It would have been an advantage … but what can you do?" he concluded with a shrug. "Translators also need to make a living, and at least I can ask for directions in both languages and read the menu in a restaurant. I'll never get lost or starve in Italy or Germany. But leave the books for now. Come on - I'll show you the rest."

 

Sherlock returned the books to the shelf, slightly disappointed. John hadn't even asked him if he knew any foreign languages, or how he'd known what the books were about. But then John hadn't brought him here for his intelligence. Sherlock shoved the episode to the back corner of his brain - along with all the other unpleasant memories he had - but a bitter aftertaste remained.

 

John showed Sherlock his own bedroom next, which - given John's sexual preferences - looked shockingly normal. Discreetly patterned, grey-blue wallpaper, large windows, a big four-poster bed (although without curtains or canopy), a large, free-standing mirror, two armchairs, a small table, a low cupboard with two Chinese vases on it - Sherlock wondered if they were genuine - and a walk-in closet. Sherlock speculated fleetingly as to why John needed such a huge closet for his five black polo necks, but presumably he owned more articles of clothing than Sherlock had seen him wear up to now.

 

Everything was extremely neat and tidy, and exuded that aura of exclusive impersonality that was normally only found in very expensive hotel suites.

 

"The bathrooms are across the hall. A little inconvenient, but the previous owner wanted it that way. Maybe I'll have that redone..." John mused.

 

As Sherlock didn't see his suitcases anywhere, he began to understand that he was going to have his own room. Therefore, he wasn't unprepared for John's next statement.

 

"As I said - this is my room," John said. "You'll spend the night here once in a while, but not all the time. I prefer to sleep alone. I've had the largest guest room prepared for you."

 

Sherlock stood very still and very stiff beside John, his hands once again locked behind his back. "What if..." he began, biting his lower lip before continuing, "if you need- _want_ me, in the middle of the night," he corrected himself quickly. After everything that John had told him both verbally and nonverbally today, John didn't _need_ anyone. Except, perhaps, for his cook.

 

A broad, wicked smile flickered across John's lips. "Don't worry. I'll find a way to let you know."

 

"Of course," Sherlock replied. He'd spotted the telephone on John's nightstand by now. Naturally, a household like this would have an internal communications system. There was probably one in the room John had assigned Sherlock as well. Oddly, he had never felt so _cheap_ in his life as he did at that moment. Was he really meant to be nothing more than a private, on-call rentboy here? Did John want nothing else from him?

 

"Clever boy," John praised him, his eyes flashing briefly. His gaze had followed Sherlock's, so he knew that Sherlock had seen the telephone and understood its significance. "I'll show you your room then."

 

They went down the hall past several doors, behind which Sherlock supposed were the other - currently unused - guest bedrooms.

 

John finally opened another door, pushed it wide, and indicated with a wave of his hand that Sherlock should enter first.

 

It was a corner room with a bay window, underneath which there was a built-in, mid-high bench. The rest of the windows in the two external walls afforded a view of the sprawling gardens that Sherlock had already caught glimpses of - and admired - from the other rooms. A queen-sized bed, a desk with a chair, a wardrobe, and an armchair rounded out the furnishings. Sherlock's suitcases had been deposited beside the bed.

 

"This used to be called the _'green room'_ ," John explained. He gestured around at the pastel green wallpaper, the throw pillows in various shades of green, and the coverlet and drapes, which were white with dark green pinstripes. "Kind of obvious why." He paused a moment to moisten his lips with his tongue. "Do you like it?"

 

Sherlock gave John a closer look. John only licked his lips for two reasons: he was either randy or nervous. Why should John be nervous? Was it possible that he was really unnerved and wanted to know whether Sherlock would feel at home here? The reticence that Sherlock had demonstrated for most of the day melted a bit. With determination, he swallowed down all of the little - and big - disappointments he'd experienced today and gave John a smile.

 

"Yes, I like it," he said softly, and had the satisfaction to see John's eyes light up, and his almost absurd suspicion - that he was important enough to John after all for him to have worried about his accommodations - was confirmed.

 

"If you need anything else... a couch, new drapes... anything... just let me know and it'll be taken care of." John appeared more content than before, but the way he was talking, so fast and excited - unusual for him - bore witness to his persistent nervousness.

 

"It's all fine, John."

 

Sherlock went to the bay window. On the way, he took note of the house telephone on the nightstand, which also confirmed that assumption. He sat down on the bench, curling one leg in underneath him and leaving the other on the floor. He looked out the window into the garden and saw - through gaps in the dense bushes - the high wall, topped with barbed wire, surrounding it. The driveway they'd come up a short while ago was also cut off by the wall - the only way in secured by a robust metal gate and a security guard.

 

"I have everything I need." Then Sherlock turned his head and looked at John, and John did him the favour of walking over to him. Sherlock leaned his head back, offering his lips to John. He knew it would be hard for John to resist, knew how arousing it was for John to kiss someone he had to bend over for. Yes, it was manipulative - but he needed this now. Needed John's kiss. Needed his fingers in his hair. Needed his breath on his skin. Needed something familiar after all these changes. Needed the comforting proximity in these strange surroundings, which unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.

 

John did lower his head - as expected - but stopped with his lips a mere breath from Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock sensed the warmth of John's body, smelled the coffee on his breath, felt John's fingers under his chin, and his heart rate increased in anticipation.

 

"Two things, before..." John began, and - sadist that he was - let his tongue flick across Sherlock's lips for a fraction of a second in a parody of a kiss. "First: no smoking. There are nicotine patches in the drawer of your nightstand. I've never been particularly interested in kissing someone who tastes like an ashtray, and I don't plan on starting now." His tongue danced once again tantalisingly over Sherlock's lips, even as Sherlock opened them with a soft moan. "Second: if you let this room deteriorate into a pigsty the way you did your rooms at Miss Adler's, then..."

 

"Then?" Sherlock breathed out with a teasing edge.

 

"Then I'll make sure you regret it," John growled at him, unaffected by the taunt. "Have I made myself clear?"

 

"Maybe. I wasn't paying attention," Sherlock said with blatant honesty. "You should know better by now than to tell me important things when you're just a kiss away from me and making me wait."

 

"Impossible wanker," John chided him before finally lowering his mouth to inflict a deep kiss on Sherlock's open, expectant lips.

 

Sherlock's hands found their way to John's hips of their own accord, gripping the material of his trousers there so hard it seemed they would never let go. His lips parted even more, and he groaned into the kiss. John's tongue found its way into his mouth, and he sucked on it gently, welcomed it, gave in to its invasion, felt his own heart beating, sensed John's respiration increasing, enjoyed the warmth, enjoyed the saliva, enjoyed John and his taste and his scent, with its special undertone of gunpowder and gun oil, felt John's fingers in his hair and suddenly noted how uncomfortably tight his trousers had become.

 

 _'John_...' he thought to himself. He wanted to say it out loud, but his mouth was too busy at the moment, and so he was rather surprised to hear the word so clearly, as if he had actually spoken it.

 

John ended the kiss with an indignant growl, but stayed where he was.

 

"John?!" the call rang through the house again, but this time it sounded closer. "John? Where are you, dammit?!"

 

"Here!" John called with a quiet sigh, although he still didn't move from where he was standing. "I'm in here, Mike."

 

 _Mike_? Sherlock's heart skipped a beat. Who was _Mike_? Did John have a … _partner_ , after all? His lips, which had just burned with heat and desire a moment ago, suddenly felt cold and numb. But before Sherlock had a chance to ask John anything, a rather corpulent man with glasses and a double chin came in, only to stop in the doorway. Sherlock blinked in confusion. That wasn't exactly the way he'd pictured the man John might have at his side.

 

"I should have known," Mike said in lieu of a greeting, coming across as rather surly. "You know we have to go. I reminded you about this meeting three times yesterday. So don't start with _'I forgot'_."

 

"I didn't forget," John replied cheerfully. "Mike - this is Sherlock. Sherlock - this is Mike Stamford. My oldest and most loyal friend, indispensible advisor and right-hand man. Oh - and straight," he added with a broad grin.

 

Relief flooded through Sherlock, but when Mike didn't do anything more than nod briefly at him, Sherlock likewise didn't say anything and stayed where he was. He'd actually meant to get up and shake Mike's hand, but the sceptical dismissal he recognised clearly - now that his initial panic had subsided - in Mike's eyes and posture stopped him. Sherlock was only too well acquainted with that look, given that he'd been exposed to it regularly since childhood. The Holmes bastard, the result of an affair, could never hope to be greeted with regard or even respect. Although Sherlock had hoped - no, he'd actually expected - the pattern to be broken under John's roof. But apparently he was wrong. He didn't understand why John didn't reproach Mike, however. Did he not notice Mike's disapproval? Or worse: did he notice and not intend to do anything about it? Sherlock wasn't quite sure on that count.

 

"John..." Mike insisted, tapping his index finger against his wristwatch. "Come on. You can read the file I prepared for you in the car. Bridges is already waiting in the driveway."

 

John straightened up a bit. "I'm coming, Mike. Five minutes, all right?" His words sounded stern, but his smile defused the severity.

 

Mike puffed out his cheeks before letting the air out noisily. "Two! Two minutes! Not one second more. If you're not down in the car in two minutes, I'm coming back up and dragging you outside by the ears, and I don't care what I walk in on." Without waiting for an answer, Mike turned on his heel and left.

 

"Does he live here too?" was the first thing that occurred to Sherlock to ask.

 

John burst out laughing. "No - good God, no. He has a wife and his own house. I wouldn't have a moment's peace otherwise." John sighed. "He means well. And if I hadn't had him... I don't know if I'd be here today. Anyway, he was the one who told me to go to Miss Adler's that night."

 

Sherlock didn't know what to make of that, or what to say. So Mike was the one who'd prompted John to go to a brothel? Then why had he looked at him with such disdain, bordering on contempt?

 

"I'll be back sometime this evening," John went on. "If you need anything, just ring and one of the staff will take care of it." He jerked his thumb in the direction of a discreetly placed button next to the desk. "There's a bell like that in every room. Also leftover from the previous owner. It's rather practical. So..." He bent down to Sherlock once more and gave him a quick kiss. "See you tonight." John stroked his hand over Sherlock's hair one last time, and then he was gone and Sherlock was alone - all alone in the big house, which seemed even emptier without John's presence.

 

Sherlock sat on the window seat a few more seconds before he got up to unpack his suitcases.

 

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

When Sherlock was finished unpacking and had sorted out and put away all his things, at least part of the cold, impersonal orderliness of the room had disappeared. The room looked lived in, maybe even tending toward inviting.

 

A quick glance at the clock told Sherlock that lunchtime was long past. All the tidying and sorting had made him thirsty, though, and he looked pensively at the push button on the wall. He gnawed on his lower lip for a while before he pulled himself together and left the room. He walked along the corridor and down the stairs, found the unassuming door that - according to John - led to the service tract and the kitchen, went through it, and found himself in a brightly lit corridor lined with several doors.

 

Sherlock listened for a moment and caught the murmur of voices. He listened more closely and identified the first door on the left as the source. He squared his shoulders, opened it before he could think about it any longer, and walked in without knocking. The conversation died as he entered, and several pairs of eyes stared at him. The reactions ranged from _guilty_ to _startled_ to _annoyed_.

 

He'd found the kitchen on the first try after all. There were four people in the large, chrome-accoutred space. The young man who'd brought Sherlock's bags up to his room sat at a table peeling potatoes, an apron tied over his suit. Apparently no one here much cared about a strict division of duties. A woman of around fifty with grey hair and a white jacket identifying her as the cook stood at the stove, where a pot was quietly bubbling. The second woman, in her early thirties and wearing a dark, knee-length dress and a white apron, must be one of the maids. The only one whose function Sherlock couldn't quite place was the man who was about John's age, sporting a narrow moustache. The dark suit and bowtie indicated some kind of butler. But was John really toff enough to employ a butler?

 

Once the first shock had passed, the young man's face registered disinterest while the cook appeared curious. The maid watched him expectantly, and the butler's expression made his disapproval clear.

 

But there was one thing that all four of them had in common - a certain snooty condescension. Their attitude said quite clearly: _we've seen others like you come and go … and WE will still be here even when Mr Watson has long since forgot your name._

 

And that answered the question that had been plaguing Sherlock. He wasn't the first man John had brought into the house. He was nothing special. He didn't set a precedent. Sherlock could have done without the knowledge - gained from bitter experience - that disappointment left an unpleasant aftertaste. But it was better to know the lay of the land, even if it was painful and made the lump in his throat that much harder to swallow.

 

Since no one said anything or asked what he wanted, Sherlock gathered himself and took the initiative. "Hello, I'm Sherlock. But you... probably know that already."

 

"We know all about you," the butler said in a nasal tone, with a slight French accent.

 

The disparaging and insinuating comment, along with the fact that he was addressed neither as _'sir'_ nor _'Mr Sigerson'_ , did hurt, but Sherlock swallowed that down as well.

 

"I wondered if I mightn't have a bottle of water."

 

"Of course," the cook replied. "Thomas will bring it up to you right away." Her gaze slid over to the young man before returning to Sherlock. "If you'd like something to eat … I could serve you a light lunch in fifteen minutes."

 

"I'm not hungry," Sherlock declined the offer. "I'll be dining with John this evening." He deliberately didn't say _'Mr Watson'_. What for? Everyone knew what position he occupied in John's life - and in his bed.

 

"You could have rung," Thomas pointed out as he stood.

 

"And made you run up and down the stairs four times?" Sherlock remarked dryly. "Not exactly efficient."

 

A somewhat embarrassed grin passed over Thomas' face. "You can use the house phone whenever you need something. Mr Watson always rings, but we have a line in here too. Just dial 22 next time."

 

Sherlock nodded. He couldn't quite bring himself to say _'thank you'_ , though.

 

"Thomas," the butler snapped. "Get back to work." Thomas bowed slightly and left the kitchen through another door. Probably to fetch the bottle of water. "If there will be nothing else..." The butler turned to Sherlock with icy civility.

 

"Oh, yes," Sherlock answered. "There is one more thing. I didn't see any enemas in my room or in the bath - and I really do need some. See to it that there are always at least two packs on hand."

 

The butler's face paled despite the high, red marks on his cheeks.

 

"Enemas?" he croaked, his accent becoming more pronounced.

 

"Yes, you know," Sherlock explained, all unruffled nonchalance. "To flush out the lower intestine. It's really very important for me and John. And Vaseline. Large quantities. You can get rid of the condoms, though. We won't have any use for them." He gave the maid a fake apologetic look. "You'll have to change the sheets more frequently in future. I hope you have a detergent that can handle semen. If not - I can recommend one to you." Sherlock sent one last look around the assembled company, which was met only with speechlessness. With quiet satisfaction, he gathered the remainder of his pride and swept out of the kitchen.

 

On the way back to his room, he realised he'd crossed an invisible boundary by visiting the kitchen, invading a territory he had no business in.

 

The household staff circulated in their own microcosm and were generally quite particular about defending it. At least he was more familiar with the people he would be dealing with now. That justified his faux pas, at least in his eyes.

 

Although he did wonder whether it had been smart to rile the butler up so against him. Probably not...

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

"What did I miss?" Thomas asked breathlessly when he stumbled back into the kitchen holding a bottle of mineral water.

 

The butler inhaled sharply. "I have never before experienced such impertinence … Mr Stamford was entirely correct with his misgivings!" he ranted. "Shocking! Utterly shocking! That … _putain_!"

 

"Oh, Jack," the cook exclaimed, shaking her head. "I don't know why the Gaul in you always comes out when you get worked up."

 

"For the hundredth time, my dear Mabel," the butler hissed angrily. "My name is _Jacques_! _Jacques_ \- not Jack!"

 

"So what did I miss?" Thomas asked, as if expecting something lurid.

 

"That … Sherlock … _sacre_ , what a name! That _pédé_ was so shameless as to..." Jacques blustered.

 

"Oh, Jacques," the maid interjected. "It's sort of your own fault, you know."

 

"You stay out of this, Anthea!" Jacques rebuked her.

 

"I didn't think he was so bad," Thomas said, shrugging, as he retrieved a glass from one of the cupboards. "At least he didn't make me run up and down the stairs four times. That's something, isn't it? The bloke didn't fall on his head."

 

Mabel clapped him on the shoulder. "Just because he encourages your laziness..." she murmured before saying with clear disapproval: "He didn't even say _please_ or _thank you_."

 

"Thomas isn't entirely off the mark..." Anthea pointed out. "At least he came down here and introduced himself. The last guy the boss dragged home wouldn't have done that in a million years."

 

"Oh yes, too right," Mabel agreed. " _He_ was a weasel if I've ever seen one! Good riddance."

 

Jacques shook his head in displeasure. "This man is and will always be a _salope_. I don't understand what Mr Watson always sees in these... _gigolos_."

 

"They're probably a hell of a good shag," Thomas said, grinning cheekily, before hurrying off to bring Sherlock his water.

 

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

There was an odd tension in the air when John and Sherlock sat down to dinner together that evening. They sat across from each other at the dining table in John's living room, neither saying a word.

 

As John was an enthusiastic eater, he didn't notice at first that Sherlock was just using his fork to move his food around on his plate rather than to put it in his mouth.

 

But before he could remark on it, Sherlock murmured, "Forty-two."

 

"The meaning of life," John chipped in. "What makes you say _that_?"

 

Sherlock raised his head, his forehead faintly creased. "What?" he asked.

 

"You just said _forty-two_ ," John answered.

 

"I was counting the peas on my plate," came the laconic reply. "What did you think?"

 

John shook his head slowly. "I thought it was a reference to Douglas Adams." In answer to Sherlock's questioning look, he added, "But I guess I was way off."

 

Sherlock shrugged and resumed rearranging his food.

 

"You're not even eating," John spoke into the silence that had been broken only by the metallic scraping of Sherlock's fork on the porcelain of his plate. "Do you not like it? You can order anything you like. I don't mean to let you starve."

 

"I'm not a big eater," Sherlock stated without any further explanation before laying his fork aside for good with a barely audible sigh.

 

He rested his elbows on the table, folded his hands under his chin, and leaned forward. He fixed John with a sober look out of his fascinating, pale eyes, causing John to lose himself for a moment in the shimmering iris and the bottomless pupils.

 

Then Sherlock's lips parted and he said, "What exactly do you want from me?"

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

**_To be continued..._ **

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

And here are the translations of the French:

 

 _putain_ \- whore, prostitute

 

 _pédé_ \- fag

 

 _sacre_ \- dammit

 

 _salope_ – slut

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Picset!!! I took way too much time on this again...

 

<http://lorelei-lee.tumblr.com/post/120171096479/teaser-for-the-next-chapter-john-takes-sherlock>

 

 

 

 

 


	19. Expectations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation by the talented [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/profile)

**Chapter 19 - Expectations**

 

Sherlock rested his elbows on the table, folded his hands under his chin, and leaned forward. He fixed John with a sober look from his fascinating, pale eyes, causing John to lose himself for a moment in the shimmering irises and the bottomless pupils.

 

Then Sherlock's lips parted and he said, "What exactly do you want from me?"

 

John gave him a bewildered look. "What do you mean … _what do I want from you_?"

 

Sighing loudly, Sherlock placed his folded hands in front of him on the table. "What do you think I mean?" he retorted. "Are there any rules I should follow? Should I go around wearing a plug? Are there any rituals I should perform? Should I sneak under your covers every morning at seven and give you a blowjob, or should I wait for you naked in the bath when you come home to wash your back? What?!" Sherlock became more and more agitated as he spoke, and at the last question he threw his hands convulsively in the air.

 

John looked chagrined. Those were damned good questions, ones he didn't have an answer to. As exciting as all those ideas were, they weren't the reason he'd brought Sherlock here. Although he wasn't quite sure himself why he'd brought him here - which he only realised just now, with Sherlock staring at him with an inscrutable expression on his face. Questioning, with a trace of resolution around his mouth and something like uncertainty in his eyes. John couldn't make heads nor tails of it.

 

Therefore, his evasive answer ended up being, "Let's just see how it goes." Anyone else would have accepted that reply from the mob boss without question. But he should have known that was exactly what Sherlock wasn't about to do.

 

"That's no answer," Sherlock huffed.

 

"Sherlock - I'm warning you," John said, very softly.

 

For a brief moment, displeasure and distaste, longing and desperation flitted across Sherlock's face. But then he bowed his head and glanced to the side.

 

"I don't want to disappoint you," he murmured in a small voice, sounding so disheartened that John's anger dissipated as quickly as it had flared up. "You spent rather a lot of money on me, after all."

 

The last statement sounded a little like a defensive mechanism to John - like a misdirection from the truth. Still, it was the first thing he responded to.

 

"Let me worry about the money. I can afford it," John said stiffly, resting his arms on the table. "And as for disappointing me..." He paused, worrying his lip, before continuing: "I never thought I'd say this, and I'm probably going to regret it, but … just be yourself. And if you do, I guarantee you'll never disappoint me."

 

Sherlock looked up at him incredulously. "Just be myself?" he asked, perplexed. "That's never ended well for me."

 

The undisguised vulnerability - something which Sherlock himself might not even be aware of, for if he were he probably wouldn't have shown it to such a degree - touched John more deeply than he'd ever admit.

 

"Then..." _we'll have to fix that_. The words were on the tip of John's tongue before he knew where they came from. He was just able to catch himself in time and swallow the rest of the sentence, even going so far as to banish it from his memory. He cleared his throat. "It's enough to have you _here_ , to start with," he went on. "And if it wouldn't be too great a bother, a smile when I come home would be nice."

 

The aforementioned smile promptly lit up Sherlock's face.

 

"I think I'll be able to manage that," he replied with playful arrogance. "Even though it's a huge sacrifice on my part."

 

"Oh, is that so?" John grinned. He was enjoying the exchange more now. The tension and gravity had disappeared. John found he was still hungry, and took another portion of mashed potatoes.

 

John noted a pensive glimmer in those pale eyes.

 

"So my mere presence is sufficient?" Sherlock asked with a sly, tentative smile. "Then something like this..." He slipped one of his shoes off under the table with the aid of his other foot then rubbed his stockinged foot over John's ankle and calf. "...won't be necessary?"

 

John's skin tingled wherever Sherlock's foot touched him. This was something he'd never done before, but it wasn't bad. It probably would have been more exciting in public - in a restaurant or something similar - but it was definitely _not_ uninteresting.

 

John spread his thighs provocatively and Sherlock took the hint immediately, sliding his foot up John's leg. In doing so, he caused the material of John's trousers to drag across his skin, setting off a delicious prickling in his nerve endings. Although Sherlock's legs were long, he had to lean back in his chair and slide forward to the edge of his seat as he moved higher up John's leg. He steadied himself on the edge of the table, stroked John's knee with his toes, and kept moving toward his goal.

 

Sherlock felt John's body heat through the material of his sock, felt the way John willingly accommodated him, scooting his hips forward on his chair, and then there was a hard, hot bulge under the sole of his foot. The silence surrounding the two men was no longer unpleasant or strained; instead, it was laden with a crackling, electric tension. The only sounds were Sherlock's moans and John's heavy breathing. The hard length beneath Sherlock's foot twitched, and he wiggled his toes to stimulate John further.

 

They were both so focused on each other that neither of them heard the footsteps on the stairs nor the door opening.

 

The sound of someone clearing his throat sounded like a gunshot in Sherlock's ears, and he flinched, removed his foot from John's lap and sat up straight in his chair like a schoolboy who'd been caught doing something naughty. As soon as he did, he was annoyed at himself.

 

John, on the other hand, merely appeared mildly amused, laying his serviette across his thighs.

 

"Jacques - I think you should probably knock before entering from now on."

 

"Very good, Mr Watson," the butler said impassively, bowing slightly. "May I clear the dishes? Was everything satisfactory?"

 

His glance included Sherlock, but Sherlock had no illusions as to the importance of his opinion.

 

"Yes, it was very good. Thank Mrs Turner for me," John answered. "You can leave everything for the moment, though. Sherlock's not finished eating."

 

"Of course," Jacques acquiesced. "Would you like coffee?"

 

"Yes, please. Bring two cups of coffee," John requested, then turned to Sherlock and said, "Jacques makes the best coffee outside of France. One of the reasons I lured him away from his previous employer."

 

Although Jacques accepted the praise in the modest, genteel manner of a well-bred and well-paid servant, it was clear how much it meant to him.

 

"Shall I serve right away?"

 

"Yes - bring it in as soon as it's ready," John said, and Jacques retreated, leaving the two men alone once again.

 

Sherlock gave John a searching look. "Has he seen worse?" he asked, nodding toward the door. "He didn't seem particularly horrified."

 

A grin appeared on John's face. "No. He hasn't seen anything _worse_. Nothing better either. He usually knocks when I..." John stopped short, his forehead creasing momentarily. "When I have a friend here. He doesn't always remember at first, though - but I only need to remind him once. It won't happen again." After a moment's reflection, he added, "He may actually have been horrified, but he's too well trained to let it show."

 

Sherlock had a sneaking suspicion as to whether Jacques really forgot to knock when John was here with _'a friend'_. He probably did it to find out what kind of men his boss was fooling around with.

 

But Sherlock kept his suspicions to himself.

 

"You didn't have to make him wait to clear on my account," Sherlock said instead. "I'm done."

 

"No, you aren't," John contradicted him firmly, and Sherlock couldn't help it - he shivered with pleasure.

 

"I don't want to eat any more." Sherlock waited to see how John would react to the provocation, his heart pounding.

 

John pursed his lips. "Any _more_? You haven't even eaten _anything at all_ yet."

 

"So?" Sherlock retorted, raising his eyebrow in challenge and folding his arms. "What are you going to do about it?"

 

"Feed you," John replied promptly and quite calmly.

 

"Wonderful … open the hangar, here comes the aeroplane," Sherlock said sarcastically.

 

The fiendish smile Sherlock loved so much appeared on John's face.

 

"Not exactly." John stood up, dipped his fingers in the mashed potatoes on his plate, scooped up a small amount, and walked around the table to Sherlock. "I was thinking more of hand-feeding."

 

Disbelief and arousal fought for the upper hand in Sherlock. Within the time it took for John to round the table, Sherlock's penis had swollen to full size and was now pressing painfully against the flies of his trousers. His brain, on the other hand, was of another opinion entirely.

 

 _'You've never eaten out of anyone's hand before - and you're not about to start now!_ ' his reason admonished him. But then John was standing right next to him, holding out his hand full of mashed potato. Sherlock looked up at him - directly into the implacable, blue eyes, the pupils blown wide.

 

"Eat," John said simply.

 

And that one word was enough to disperse Sherlock's resolutions like so much dust in the wind. Obediently, he bent down over John's hand, took the mashed potato with his lips and tongue, and swallowed it. He had no idea what it tasted like. It might have been sawdust and he wouldn't have cared. All he was aware of was the throbbing of his erection in time with his heartbeat.

 

John was still holding out his hand.

 

"Lick it clean," he commanded softly, and with a moan of pleasure, Sherlock obliged.

 

He licked across John's palm with broad strokes, enclosed each finger with his lips and sucked until John's respiration rate increased as well and he started fucking Sherlock's mouth with two of his fingers. Sherlock tilted his head back and opened his mouth to accommodate another finger.

 

"Greedy … always so greedy," John growled at him in a deep voice, pressing three fingers against Sherlock's tongue.

 

A knock sounded at the door. John pulled his fingers out, and Sherlock blinked slowly, taking a while to return to reality. Jacques entered a moment later without waiting to be invited. John wiped his fingers calmly on a serviette, which he then dropped onto Sherlock's plate.

 

"You can clear the table now, Jacques," he said on his way over to the couch. He sat down and crossed his legs. Obviously an attempt to hide his arousal from his employee. The grin playing on Sherlock's lips was just a bit malicious. So John had been affected by the feeding as well. It wasn't just Sherlock who had been reduced to nothing more than a single, quivering erogenous zone by his actions.

 

"I'll take my coffee here," John directed the butler once the man had piled the dirty dishes on a tray, leaving just the little silver service with the coffee things on the table.

 

"Very good," Jacques replied, filled one of the cups with expert ease, added some milk, brought the cup to John and set it down on the low coffee table.

 

Sherlock was still sitting at the dining table - also in order to hide his conspicuous erection - and saw that a dainty almond biscuit had been placed on the saucer next to John's cup. His gaze flitted back to the silver tray with the rest of the dishes and found his suspicion confirmed. There were no more biscuits. Another put-down, which he'd expected - virtually anticipated, really. He didn't care. He didn't place any value on such petty vanities. What did hurt, however, was the fact that John - who was otherwise always so attentive - either didn't notice the unequal treatment, or did notice and allowed it.

 

Sherlock swallowed hard.

 

It wasn't pleasant, but he'd always preferred to know what he was up against than to live in ignorance of reality.

 

Jacques approached the table again. It was obvious that it was a struggle for him, but he managed to ask Sherlock with unruffled politeness, "How do you take your coffee?"

 

"Black, two sugars," Sherlock replied.

 

As soon as Jacques had served him, John spoke up.

 

"Thank you, Jacques. I won't need you anymore. You can retire for the night."

 

Jacques nodded, said, "Good night, Mr Watson," and left, taking the used dishes with him.

 

Sherlock made to get up, but John stopped him. "Drink your coffee," he said quietly, without looking up from his own cup. "It's really good."

 

Rolling his eyes in surrender, Sherlock took a quick sip. And then a second one, slower this time. He let the third one roll luxuriously around on his tongue. This coffee was a revelation. Hot, strong, aromatic, with an almost creamy consistency and just a trace of bitterness.

 

"Good, isn't it?" John's voice sounded, and although Sherlock had his eyes closed, he heard the amused, eye-twinkling smile in the words.

 

"Ambrosia," Sherlock purred in satisfaction.

 

"Ambrosia, hm?" John said, smirking. "I guess you're probably not interested in anything else _I_ might offer you." Sherlock opened his eyes to find John's dark gaze resting on him. "Come here..." John demanded. Sherlock went.

 

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Less than fifteen minutes later, Sherlock was kneeling naked on the seat of the couch, his legs spread, holding himself steady with both hands on the backrest. His arse was straining back toward John's passionate thrusts, and the tip of his stiff member tapped against the aforementioned backrest in time with their motions. Sherlock moistened his parched lips. The fleeting yet solid contact of his hot, swollen glans against the cool leather of the couch was both exquisite and agonising, and was hopefully going to continue for a while.

 

But John noticed what was going on before too long and stopped, eliciting a whinge of protest from Sherlock that was disregarded. He grabbed Sherlock's hips in a merciless grip and jerked him back further - away from any possibility of additional stimulation.

 

"I'm afraid I can't allow you to sully my couch," John growled throatily, stroking his fingers through the unruly curls and down his back in an almost tender gesture. "At least not _yet_..."

 

Sherlock felt bereft, suddenly deprived of the loss of contact against his groin, and groaned softly. He pressed his forehead against the back of the couch.

 

Gentle hands moved over his back, his arse, his thighs - inflaming his desire and at the same time torturing him with their tenderness. He still felt John, huge and hard inside him, felt the material of John's trousers (he was - as usual - still almost entirely clothed) against his legs, but John held himself completely still. Sherlock couldn't entirely suppress a rather pitiful whimper.

 

"Might it be that you don't fully appreciate what I'm doing for you here?"

 

There it was again - the strict yet slightly amused tone of voice, used to giving orders and having them obeyed, which only served to send more blood into his already quivering lower half.

 

John's left hand released the trembling body, instead probing the backrest of the couch. When he found the sticky moisture, a wicked smile appeared on his face. Sherlock's brief twitch - which felt wonderful around his erection - and the way he lifted his head told him that Sherlock knew what he was doing … and probably also what he had planned.

 

"What kind of filthy mess is this?" John asked coolly, holding his damp fingers in front of Sherlock's face. "Didn't I tell you not to get my couch dirty?"

 

"Yes, you did," Sherlock whispered.

 

"Control. Why is it that you can never control yourself?" he said, playing at being aggrieved by the fact, and clicked disapprovingly with his tongue. "Lick it clean," he ordered with cold detachment, moving the two besmirched fingers closer to Sherlock so he could reach them.

 

John promptly felt the wet warmth of Sherlock's mouth surround his fingers.

 

God - Sherlock could be so docile and obedient when he wanted to, almost excessively so … Even before, when Sherlock's eager tongue had cleaned the mashed potatoes from his fingers, his libido had been surprisingly attentive. John had actually meant it as a way to force Sherlock to buckle under, to awaken his submissiveness - and maybe to humiliate him a bit as well. But he hadn't counted on finding it so arousing himself.

 

This particular manner of penetrating another body brought with it an odd kind of intimacy - it was almost more intense than one of the more usual sexual acts. Maybe it was because fingers were more agile and could act more independently than a penis.

 

No matter the reason, it was certainly a sensation that was unsurpassed and highly stimulating. The teeth scraping lightly across his skin, digging playfully into his flesh; the lips enclosing his fingers tightly and sucking them greedily; the tongue seeking out the spaces between his fingers, gentle and forceful at the same time, putting his sense of touch to the test and causing a delightful tingling in his hand that spread throughout his body, giving him goose pimples all over.

 

He spread his thumb and the rest of his fingers under Sherlock's chin, holding his head in place.

 

He pushed his two other fingers even deeper into the soft, warm mouth, plunging his penis at the same time deep into Sherlock's other orifice, finding it equally warm and equally willing.

 

A gurgling kind of moan escaped past John's fingers as Sherlock arched his back, wanting more, pushed his hips back against John's and tried to hump the back of the couch again. But between John's fingers in his mouth and wrapped around his jaw, and John's other hand on his hip, he didn't have anywhere to go. He was nothing but a plaything for John's lust, which had taken control of him in every way imaginable. Sherlock's thighs shook, both with arousal and with the effort it took to hold himself up. His heart was beating so hard and strong, driving his blood through his veins so fast, he was afraid it was going to break out of his chest. His head was strangely empty and light, and he felt filled and fulfilled by John … _John_ … JOHN … and he didn't want the feeling ever to end.

 

He'd barely completed the thought before John's movements became more frantic and less controlled, and with a rattle from deep in his throat he froze, groaned, thrust once more - slow and deep, jerked again, and then finally fell still. With a sigh that spoke of both relief and contentment, John pulled carefully out of him, removing his fingers from Sherlock's mouth at the same time.

 

"Don't..." Sherlock begged breathlessly, squeezing all his muscles in order to feel John's wonderful hard length for just a moment longer. "Not yet..."

 

"Shhh..." was all John said, and then Sherlock felt two hands on his buttocks, pulling his cheeks apart.

 

John stared greedily at the stretched anus, gleaming with Vaseline, and its spasmodic attempts to close itself completely. But after every contraction of the muscle, a small opening remained, out of which small amounts of semen oozed in the same rhythm as the convulsions.

 

With the two fingers that had just been in Sherlock's mouth, and which were still wet with saliva, John smeared the semen around on the pale skin then shoved it back in where it came from. His fingers slid into Sherlock effortlessly, and the other man commented on the process with a guttural moan. With his other hand, John gave Sherlock an encouraging slap on the arse.

 

"Now you can," he gave his permission.

 

"What?" Sherlock asked, his voice raw. "What can I do?"

 

John ran his tongue across his upper lip and answered with an oily grin: "Frot the back of the couch until you come." When Sherlock hesitated a moment too long, John said, more sharply, "I'm waiting."

 

Sherlock immediately pressed his body into the soft leather and sighed involuntarily when his hot, hard cock touched the cool upholstery, stuttered and caught against it and then, thanks to the copious amounts of pre-come lubricating his glans, slid upwards with only the slightest pressure until his throbbing member was trapped between the backrest and his own body.

 

Sherlock bit down on his lips and lowered his head. It was humiliating to hump a piece of furniture like an animal when there were more than enough hands available, even though he would have been more than happy just a few minutes ago if John had allowed him the same exact stimulation. But now … now he felt as if he were being put on display, and not in a good way. He felt debased, and yet...

 

The humiliation caused Sherlock's face to flush, and drove his arousal up to unbearable levels.

 

He'd barely begun to rub himself against the seat with small, circular motions of his hips, when the fingers in his arse started to twist and fuck him with short, deep strokes. And all of a sudden, everything was good again.

 

John hadn't failed to notice Sherlock's brief inner struggle along with the increase in his arousal, and decided to tease him just a bit more. Although he pushed his fingers deep into Sherlock's body, he avoided stimulating his prostate as much as he could. A lusty gleam appeared in his eyes when he saw how Sherlock angled and turned his hips to get John's fingers where he wanted them. But John was prepared, and pulled his fingers back, not letting them penetrate deep enough anymore, instead settling for short, shallow strokes.

 

It didn't take long before Sherlock began asking for " _More_." His voice had deteriorated to a throaty whimper, and John's grin broadened.

 

"You want more?" he asked in a voice as sweet as honey, and Sherlock nodded frantically. "You want me to stimulate your prostate? To touch that little spot over and over with my fingers... rubbing it, stroking it, pressing it, until you're so hot and bothered you can't stand it anymore … until you have so much sperm in your balls you think they're going to explode if something doesn't happen soon..." Sherlock shuddered and his thighs shook, but John didn't hear anything more than a rattling intake of breath from him. "And then … one last stroke, one last bit of pressure on all those nerve endings … until your entire body is nothing more than one big erogenous zone … until everything in you seizes up … and then there'll be fountains..."

 

Sherlock sobbed, swallowed hard, and whispered hoarsely, "Yes..." before adding, "Please?" in a questioning tone that sounded so helpless that it sent fresh waves of lust coursing through John's body.

 

"Well..." John drawled his reply. "If I did that, you'd ejaculate all over in about twenty seconds - as worked up as you are at the moment." He shook his head in mock regret. "I can't let you do that. That would be much too quick. I want you to enjoy it a bit more today..."

 

Enjoy! How was Sherlock supposed to enjoy those wonderful fingers now? He needed to feel them deeper … deeper inside his body … deeper and more demanding … on that oh so special spot. On that very spot John meant to spare from his _caresses_. If Sherlock hadn't been so busy moaning, he would have ground his teeth. Of course he didn't _need_ constant stimulation of his prostate to climax … but now that John had painted everything he _couldn't have_ in such vivid colours … now he _wanted_ it at all costs. And anything offered as an alternative - rubbing one out on the back of the couch or a couple of fingers up his arse - paled in comparison to his overwhelming desire for a thorough stimulation of his prostate.

 

How he hated this man! But at the same time, he thanked providence with all his heart for having sent John his way.

 

John's fingers pressed in a bit further, but Sherlock knew they would stop before they reached the spot he wanted. Almost desperate now, Sherlock ground his penis against the soft, pliable upholstery, pushing his swollen glans into the leather - now warm from his body - and felt his orgasm approaching despite everything standing in its way. It really was too soon, much too soon … he didn't want to come yet … yet he felt the climax rising in him … It was a disturbing yet incredibly intense sensation. Clarity and ecstasy held each other in check for a short time - a time that seemed like an eternity to Sherlock. Shame and lust battled bitterly for the upper hand, egging each other ever upwards to heretofore unthinkable heights.

 

At some point, Sherlock realised he was holding himself perfectly still, when his entire body tensed. Only his hips jerked in ever shorter motions, as if under some outside influence, driving his erection in hard, fast thrusts into the back of the couch. Then he felt the first pulses in the head of his penis.

 

For a fraction of a second, Sherlock's mind existed in a state of perfect peace and stillness. But then he heard himself rasp, "John, _John_... I... nnnggghhh … John … _aaahhhhhh_..." and his orgasm crashed over him like a force of nature. He ejaculated, pulsing and shaking hard, onto the leather of the couch. His back arched at first, then bent forward, and the last sputter of his climax landed on the seat cushion.

 

Then he collapsed over the backrest and hung there like a piece of wet laundry over a washline. He really couldn't have cared less.

 

"Oh God," Sherlock murmured hoarsely. "Ohgodohgodohgod..." Sensation returned to his body, but he wasn't ready for it yet. He wanted to spend a little while longer in that blissful, detached state, to rest in that quiet, sensual Nirvana, but the hands on his arse, his thigh, and his back called him irrevocably back to reality.

 

"That was a little more mess that I expected," John said, but there was no reproach in his voice. "Someone must have really needed that, hm?"

 

Sherlock felt a kiss on the back of his neck, and he stretched, luxuriating in the sensation.

 

"What do you think? Are you steady enough to clean up yet?" John wanted to know, pinching his nipples lightly.

 

Sherlock flinched a bit and blinked at John crossly over his shoulder. "If by that you mean I should go get a wet flannel and wipe it up, we can _perhaps_ discuss it in five minutes," he replied with a distant satisfaction. "But if you mean licking it up … if this couch tastes as repugnant as your shoes - forget it," he declared dryly, wriggling in pleasure against John's body, as it was half bent over him.

 

Another kiss was pressed to Sherlock's neck, and Sherlock felt the quiet laughter before John straightened up. He heard the zip being pulled up. John was once again completely presentable - as opposed to him.

 

"You wanted to know what I wanted from you earlier..." John began. Sherlock pricked his ears, unable to prevent his heart from beating a bit faster in excitement as John continued: "I think that question has been answered to the full satisfaction of all parties involved."

 

Sherlock closed his eyes. His heart rate returned to normal then slowed even further, becoming heavy. He swallowed. Then he said - attempting to hit a carefree, unemotional tone - "Yes, I believe I have a fairly good idea now."

 

Sherlock had known it. He'd known from the start what he was getting into. Still, he'd hoped. He'd hoped just a tiny bit that there would be something more. What that _'more'_ might have been - he wasn't sure himself... hadn't even allowed himself to think about it more deeply. But John's remark had destroyed even that hope - that tiny, little hope. Sherlock told himself it was fine, that it could have been worse and that it didn't matter … but he was just lying to himself.

 

John had taken him from Irene the same way he'd taken Jacques, the butler and master of all things coffee, from his previous employer. John engaged only the best to provide for his physical well-being. The best chauffeur, the best coffee-maker, and … the best cocksucker - Sherlock.

 

A hand found its way to his hair and ruffled it gently. "You should get to bed. Wouldn't want you to fall asleep here," John mentioned, a trace of concern in his voice. "You'd end up with a hell of a backache tomorrow."

 

Sherlock swallowed again. In other words: he was meant to sleep alone tonight. He bit his lip briefly before turning around resolutely, sitting on the couch, and looking up at John.

 

"What about you?"

 

"I'm going to shower and go to bed as well," John answered, caressing Sherlock's cheek with one finger. "I need to be out of the house early tomorrow. If you'd like to have breakfast with me … tea will be ready at eight in here."

 

"I'll be here," Sherlock said.

 

John rewarded him with a smile, bent down to give him a quick kiss on the mouth, wished him a good night, and then left the room … down the hall … to his own bathroom. A short while later, Sherlock heard water running, and later still the bathroom door opened and closed. More steps in the hall, and then another door opened and closed.

 

John had gone to bed.

 

Sherlock was alone.

 

At some point, he got up and went to his bathroom.

 

After a solitary shower, he lay alone in his bed. Separated from John by several walls.

 

Sherlock rolled over onto his back and stared blindly up at the ceiling.

 

This was his bed.

 

This was his room.

 

This was his life from now on.

 

A life he'd longed for, and that yet was so very different.

 

What was the saying? Be careful what you wish for … because you just might get it...

 

Sherlock rubbed his hand over his face. Then he reached under the pillow and took out the handkerchief that John had given him the day before. He'd left it in here earlier. He hadn't given it back yet, and he didn't plan to. It was the only present John had ever given him. Well - it wasn't _exactly_ a present … but Sherlock had learned not to be choosy.

 

Had it really just been yesterday? It seemed like a hundred years ago.

 

With the handkerchief in his hand and the faint scent of gunpowder and gun oil in his nose, he drifted off to sleep.

 

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_**To be continued...** _

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Picset! After looking myself half to death, I finally decided to use Ralph Fiennes in the new movie "The Grand Hotel Budapest" as the model for Jacques. I would have rather used Jean Dujardin from "The Artist", but I could only find black-and-white pictures... If you have any other ideas - let me know. Best with a link!

 

(BTW, for John I'm using Martin Freeman as Hector Dixon in "Wild Target".)

 

<http://lorelei-lee.tumblr.com/post/120761578559/teaser-for-chapter-19-of-deflowered-directors>

 

 

 

 

 

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo


	20. Forbidden Fruits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translation by the one and only SwissMiss!!!

 

**Chapter 20 - Forbidden Fruits**

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

When John entered the living room the next morning, Sherlock was already sitting at the table, poking at a small serving of scrambled eggs on his plate. Whereas John was already dressed in a black suit with a white shirt and black tie, Sherlock was wearing a dressing gown that shimmered like silk (but which John suspected was actually made of polyester) over his pyjamas. Sherlock's feet were bare, in contrast to John's black patent leather shoes. The sight of those naked feet and the unusually long, highly dextrous toes elicited a certain lusty tug in John's lower abdomen. He took a deep, focused breath through his nose to rein in his libido, and took a seat at the table as well.

 

At some point he would certainly allow Sherlock to get him off with those talented feet alone. But not now. He really didn't have time for it that morning.

 

John ignored the warming tray with the scrambled eggs in favour of a slice of toast, which he smeared with jam. As an accompaniment, he poured himself a cup of tea. Only once he'd completed that task did it occur to him: "If you'd prefer coffee with breakfast..."

 

Sherlock shook his head. "No. Tea is fine."

 

"Good," John said, taking a hearty bite of his toast. Slightly irritated, he followed the path of Sherlock's fork as - just like at dinner the previous night - it traced circles through the eggs without ever being raised to his mouth.

 

"Eat something," he blurted out abruptly. "I don't have time to feed you this morning."

 

"Shame," Sherlock murmured. However, he did take a couple of bites, and John turned his attention to his second slice of toast. "Are you attending a funeral today?" Sherlock finally asked with a kind of mocking curiosity. "Or why are you all in black and white?"

 

John took a sip of tea before answering. "Yes, funeral."

 

"Oh," Sherlock said, looking up from his food with a stricken, uncertain expression. "I didn't mean to..."

 

"It's fine," John assured him, and even though he hadn't wanted to discuss his work with Sherlock, the next words spilled out of him without even passing through a filter. "Awkward business. Policeman." In answer to Sherlock's questioning look - delivered without a trace of horror or any other judgement, as John noted to his pleasant surprise - he added, "I had nothing to do with it. If it'd been one of my boys, they could have bought a double plot. To gun down a police officer - and the wrong one, to boot - is pretty much the stupidest thing you can do. No, it was the Russians. I have to show up, though. It's expected of someone in my position."

 

"The wrong one?" Sherlock echoed, resting his chin on his folded hands.

 

"Yes, it was an accident," John confirmed. "The whole thing was bloody stupid, according to what I've heard... The dead man got in the way somehow. It was supposed to be another bloke entirely - that new Detective Inspector Lestrade. I get that the Russians wanted to eliminate him - the man's a thorn in our side too. But to shoot him like that? In broad daylight? There are lots of other ways to get rid of a cop." John took another sip of his tea before continuing. "Anyway, the guy seems to be the last honest Plod. Rather annoying, actually. At least he didn't react to the first attempt to bribe him. Maybe the price wasn't right." John shrugged his shoulders. "I just wonder why a man like Lestrade suddenly got promoted now after being a sergeant for all those years. I'd really like to know whose arse he kissed for that." He took another bite of his toast before saying, "My tailor will be here in an hour, by the way."

 

"Oh?" Sherlock said. "The funeral won't be over so soon, will it? Why is he coming when you won't even be here?"

 

John rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "He's coming for you."

 

"For me?" Sherlock replied, bewildered. "Whatever does he want with me?"

 

"To take your measurements?" John suggested indulgently.

 

"For what?"

 

"Sherlock, I saw the clothes you brought," John answered with a soft sigh. "They're a bit … well, shabby. And there's not enough. I didn't intend for you to walk around the house naked. And since you don't intend to ever leave the house, my tailor has to come here. He'll take your measurements and get to work. I've already told him what you need. He knows what to do." John's gaze slid over Sherlock's morning attire. "Although, now that I think about it - I should probably add pyjamas and dressing gowns to the list."

 

John shoved the last piece of toast into his mouth and rinsed it down with the rest of his tea. "I'd better be making a move." He stood up, went over to Sherlock and kissed him on the mouth. His kiss was returned with passionate interest, and the lusty pull in his groin reported back. "See you later," John murmured, kissing Sherlock once more before straightening up and going to the door. Halfway there, a thought came to him. He stopped and turned.

 

"Oh yes - before I forget … Please don't turn the house upside-down looking for drugs. I don't keep anything like that here on principle." He was almost out the door when he heard something that sounded like the growl of a mad dog behind him. He stopped and turned toward the noise.

 

"I - am - clean," Sherlock hissed from where he still sat at the table, his teeth gritted.

 

"Yeah - that's what they all say," John declared with more than a hint of weariness in his voice. He was just about to continue on his way when Sherlock sprang up so fast his chair clattered to the floor behind him. "Sherlock!" John cried out angrily.

 

"I AM CLEAN!" Sherlock screamed, quivering with rage. "How often do I have to show you my arms before you believe me?"

 

"OH PLEASE!" John yelled back, full of contempt. "As if there weren't other ways to get high than shooting up! Go find someone else to sell it to!"

 

Sherlock's hands clenched into fists. "I'm not some bloody crack whore spreading his legs for the next hit!"

 

"Maybe not anymore," John remarked acidly, and all the colour drained from Sherlock's face. Even his lips turned pale, but he didn't say anything. John thought the matter was settled, and turned away from Sherlock. Afterwards, he realised that was his mistake, as the attack came without any forewarning whatsoever.

 

Just as he opened the door, it flew out of his hand and something whirled him around. He felt the door frame digging painfully into his back, and Sherlock's fingers closed over his throat in a steely grip. With his free hand, Sherlock twisted John's left wrist - just a bit, but John knew that one false move would cause it to break like a dry twig. Just like the first time Sherlock had attacked him, everything had gone too fast to process.

 

John stared at the blanched face and the pale eyes glaring down at him. They appeared so large they were out of proportion with the rest of his features, and burned with anger. Although John's ability to breathe was considerably limited by Sherlock's grip, his immediate thought wasn't ' _more air_ '. It was ' _My God, he looks magnificent!_ '

 

"I have never spread my legs … for anyone … except you. And you bloody well know it." Sherlock's voice was as ominous, low and dark as the distant roll of thunder, and went straight to John's cock, circumventing his brain entirely, causing the former to stiffen slowly but surely.

 

Why was he such a goddamn adrenaline junkie? Mike had always warned him it would get him in trouble again. Too bad Mike wasn't here to see the confirmation of his prediction. John's mouth went dry; he still had enough air, but it was a close thing. Yet he didn't call out for help or reach for the weapon in the inner breast pocket of his jacket. The pistol was small, more like a dainty trinket for a woman's handbag, but it would do enough damage at this close range to give him an advantage. John had taken it in order not to leave the house completely unarmed, as the shoulder holster for his favourite gun would have shown too much under his suit. It simply wouldn't have been appropriate for a funeral. He didn't even try to use his unhampered right hand to free himself. He simply held still. Fascinated and completely enthralled by Sherlock's angry outburst.

 

"Yes, I took drugs," Sherlock confessed in the same threatening tone, causing John's body to pump even more blood into his crotch. "But that's all over and done with. I stopped the moment Irene took me in. She wouldn't have stood for it."

 

The pressure of the fingers around John's throat increased for a brief moment, and John automatically gasped for air, feeling the first flutter of panic. But fuck if this wasn't the hottest thing he'd ever experienced!

 

"Have you understood now?" Sherlock rumbled, lessening the pressure of his fingers a bit.

 

"Yes," John affirmed, panting. "Yes... fuck, Sherlock … I have to..." With his free hand, he grabbed Sherlock by the hair and pulled him down for a hard, intense kiss. Sherlock made a surprised sound, which was, however, blocked by John's tongue. John let go of the unruly curls and frantically scrabbled at the flies of his trousers. He groaned loudly when he finally got his hand on his hard cock. Sherlock must have understood what was going on by this point, but he neither relaxed his grip on John's throat nor released his lips. Instead, he kissed John with an abandon he'd never shown before.

 

John could still feel the shooting pain in his back where Sherlock had him pushed up against the door frame, but that all became unimportant. He fisted his cock like a man possessed, pressed the entire length of his body against Sherlock's, and came only seconds later with a hoarse cry.

 

Gasping for air, he collapsed against Sherlock, who only now removed his fingers from John's throat and held him by the shoulders. John could feel the beginnings of Sherlock's erection against his stomach and glanced at the clock on the mantel. Dammit! Mike was almost certainly waiting downstairs for him. He brushed his knuckles apologetically over the hard swelling in Sherlock's pyjama trousers, heard his breath stutter and said, "Sorry, but I really don't have time." He stepped back from Sherlock, who watched him with an inscrutable expression.

 

"As long as that's up again tonight, you can do whatever you want with it while I'm gone." John swallowed and then looked down at himself to tuck away his depleted penis, only to make an unpleasant discovery - it wasn't just Sherlock's pyjamas that had received a portion of his semen; John's suit had unmistakeable spots on it as well. "Oh no! Sodding hell!" he cursed fluently.

 

"You'll have to change," Sherlock stated dryly. "What was that just now, by the way?"

 

"That was fucking hot is what it was," John answered with a shaky smile. "And you made your point quite clearly." He licked his lips quickly before saying softly, "Sorry. Won't happen again. It's just..." He took a deep breath. "I may have heard that phrase once too often."

 

"You should have known I don't spout empty phrases," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly.

 

"Yes, I should have," John admitted, unable to return Sherlock's calm gaze for some reason.

 

"And now go and change," Sherlock said with a little sigh. "I don't particularly fancy having Mike's anger directed at me because you're late."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Mike Stamford was tapping his foot in agitation on the marble floor of the entry hall when John finally came down the stairs.

 

"We have to make time now, John," he called out to him crossly. "Or do you want to be the last one to show up?"

 

"No, of course not," John said when he reached the last step.

 

Mike stopped and goggled at him. "That's not a black suit."

 

"Give the man a prize," was all John said as he passed Mike on the way to the door.

 

Mike remained silent for a moment in the wake of the shock, but then he ranted: "Are you mental? You can't show up at a funeral in a grey suit!"

 

John had already opened the door, and called over his shoulder, "Had a little accident at breakfast."

 

"Did you spill some egg or did the _little accident_ go by the name of Sherlock?" Mike frothed, hurrying after John.

 

"Let's put it this way," John said, grinning guiltily while he waited for Bridges to open the door to the back seat of the car. "It looked a little like uncooked egg."

 

Mike groaned.

 

"Do I want to know the details?"

 

"No," John answered shortly.

 

John got into the car with Mike right behind him.

 

Once they were settled in and Bridges set off, Mike couldn't help commenting, "That punter should keep his hands off you when you have an appointment."

 

"It's not Sherlock's fault," John said, staring pensively out the window. "Leave him be."

 

"Fine," Mike sighed. "But why didn't you put on another black suit? You have more than one - I know that for a fact."

 

"They're all being cleaned. I can't help it!" John defended himself. "There have been more funerals than usual lately. Do you have some crepe for me or something? I could tie it around my arm so I don't look so disrespectful."

 

Mike rolled his eyes. "Crepe! Where am I supposed to get crepe from?" he snapped at his friend.

 

John gave him a long, hard look, and Mike pulled a piece of black cloth out of the inner breast pocket of his jacket and handed it to John.

 

"You're the best, as ever," John grinned in a conciliatory manner, sliding the crepe band on over his sleeve. "Whatever would I do without you?"

 

"Get yourself killed. You would!" Mike retorted loudly, but it sounded more than half resigned.

 

' _And get a hell of a hard-on at the same time_ ,' John thought with a generous portion of self-deprecation. ' _Oh, Mike... if only you knew..._ '

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

In the following weeks, John found it surprisingly easy to settle into a very pleasant routine with Sherlock. They always had breakfast together - no matter what time John had to get up, Sherlock was always sitting at the table waiting for him. When John was at home working in his office, he often took a break for a sandwich and a quickie with Sherlock, who always welcomed him with enthusiasm. And if John needed to leave the house, he could be sure of being greeted with a smile - not infrequently accompanied by bare skin - on his return.

 

Sometimes John also simply treated himself to a quiet evening in - watching television or reading a book or the newspaper if he hadn't got to it during the day. Sherlock never whinged around on those evenings demanding attention … when John thought of everything he'd put up with from Sherlock's predecessors! It was relaxing to just sit there - knowing Sherlock was next to him on the couch, close enough to feel him … or that it was enough to look up and see Sherlock sitting across from him in the second armchair, solving crosswords and sudokus at breakneck speed.

 

John could never say how evenings like that would end … sometimes nothing happened at all, sometimes John gestured to Sherlock and they went into John's bedroom to have some fun, and sometimes … sometimes Sherlock crawled on all fours over to him, climbed into his lap, nibbled at his earlobe and teased him until he tossed Sherlock over the nearest piece of furniture and got off with him until Sherlock's cries rang through the entire house.

 

At some point, John asked Sherlock to pick something he liked out of John's assortment of CDs and put it on. It was then that Sherlock discovered his collection of opera music, and slipped ‘ _Turandot_ ’ into the CD player.

 

"A mob boss who's an opera aficionado," Sherlock mocked, and returned to the couch, accompanied by the cheerful, upbeat opening notes of the overture. "A little bit clichéd, don't you think?"

 

"So what?" John answered. "I like opera. You?"

 

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. "I prefer classical concerts, especially strings..." Sherlock broke off abruptly, although John was sure he'd wanted to say more. John was going to ask, but then Sherlock said with a light-hearted smile, "But opera's nice too." John then forgot all about his question when Sherlock began tossing the cushions from the couch onto the floor at John's feet.

 

John watched him sceptically, but didn't say anything. "How magnanimous of you," he teased, and then Sherlock lowered himself onto the cushions - as lithesome and graceful as ever - nestled up against John's legs, and closed his eyes with a beatific expression.

 

From that time on, Sherlock would frequently put in a CD of opera music and sit at John's feet, nuzzling against him like an oversized Persian cat … or a tame black panther. John could never quite decide. However, he had noticed - from the early days of their meeting, in fact - that Sherlock had a tendency to cling, snuggling up so close that there wasn't room for so much as a slip of paper between them.

 

Why in the world John let him get away with it was a mystery even to him. John Watson did not cuddle! But there was something else going on with Sherlock … when he rested his cheek on John's knee, there was something so trusting in the gesture that John didn't want to disturb it for anything in the world. After all, it was rather nice to have someone around who displayed such unconditional admiration - almost adoration - as Sherlock did. Even if that adoration was directed mainly at John's artful gratification of Sherlock's sexual lusts, it still flattered John's vanity.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

One morning several weeks after Sherlock moved in with John, Sherlock was about to go into his bathroom to shower when he stopped in the hallway and listened. Did he hear a tune being whistled over the sound of the water splashing in John's shower? Was that John whistling so cheerfully? His insatiable curiosity drove him further down the hall until he was standing in front of John's bathroom.

 

He was right - a melodic whistling floated out through the closed door. Sherlock even thought he recognised the song. Wasn't it an aria from that opera they'd listened to the night before? It wasn't exactly the same, but it sounded like a version of the Champagne Aria from ‘ _Don Giovanni_ ’.

 

Before Sherlock even realised what he was doing, his hand had wrapped itself around the door handle, pressed it down, and opened the door to John's bathroom.

 

Behind the steamy glass walls of the built-in shower area, Sherlock could make out John's nude form, and a little shiver of pleasure ran through his body. It was uncommon enough that he got to see John without any clothes on, so the sight was as rare as it was precious to him, and it was worth taking a moment to enjoy it and impress it into his memory. John, who was washing his hair and thus completely unaware of his audience, continued to whistle in a carefree manner. Sherlock pulled the door shut behind himself, crossed his arms over his chest, leaned back against the sink and continued listening to the upbeat melody.

 

John's bathroom was larger and fancier than Sherlock's. The dark green, matte floor tiles, the shower with the clear glass walls, the two showerheads and the open entry, as well as the shiny, white-and-grey wall tiles, conformed to the taste of John's interior decorator, as Sherlock knew by this point. Sherlock had often wondered whether John had fucked that genius of interior design or whether he'd paid him for his services in a more conventional manner. Once in a while, when he felt like torturing himself, Sherlock imagined the two of them going at it here in the bathroom in the midst of paint buckets, boxes of tiles, and ladders standing in their way. It was odd. Sherlock wasn't jealous of any of his predecessors the way he was of this nameless, faceless interior designer. He didn't know the reason for it himself.

 

John rinsed the shampoo out of his hair with his eyes squeezed shut then wiped the water away from his face. When he opened his eyes again, he became aware of a very familiar shape on the other side of the fogged-up glass. He stopped whistling and rubbed the steam away from the pane.

 

"Sherlock?"

 

"Don't stop," Sherlock said. He was clad only in a pair of pyjama trousers (which hung so scandalously low on his hips that his pubic hair would have been visible if he didn't shave it so meticulously) and leaning against the sink, obviously having listened to John whistling.

 

"You can whistle yourself if you like it so much," John retorted and picked up his shower gel. He wasn't exactly embarrassed to whistle in front of other people - it was more that he didn't even really want to whistle, yet recently, he caught himself more and more almost unconsciously whistling some tune or other. Whistling opera music was inseparably associated with another time for him. A time when he'd been happy. Happy, a little ignorant, and very much in love. In other words: his time with Victor. But then Victor had broken his heart and his memories of that time had become unbearable. Whenever he started to purse his lips to make a sound, everything came back, including the pain - and, if he were honest, the thirst for revenge. And that pain ruined any pleasure he took in his current life, which wasn't so bad, actually; in fact, it was going better than he'd ever thought possible.

 

"I can't whistle," Sherlock confessed, recalling John back to the present. "I'm a typical homosexual in that regard. I can't whistle or play football."

 

"You can't whistle?" John returned, soaping up his chest.

 

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. "I just can't. On the other hand, I've mastered a great many other tricks with my mouth. Tricks that you haven't taken advantage of in a very long time."

 

It was true, ever since John had caught him wearing the plug and come all over his face, he hadn't let Sherlock's mouth anywhere near his cock.

 

"Patience is a virtue," John replied with his best shark-toothed grin.

 

"Do I look like someone who's particularly virtuous?" Sherlock pouted.

 

John wiped the steam off the glass pane again and gave Sherlock a lascivious grin. "Not at the moment anyway," he remarked slowly. "Why are you still standing around out there? Get in here. Your trousers are going to end up on the floor in the next twenty seconds anyway."

 

"Hardly," said Sherlock, appearing almost self-conscious for a moment. And in fact, he did end up having to stretch the elastic waistband of his trousers in order to get it over his half-hard penis. But then he was free of them and stepped into the entrance to the shower area, only to stop there uncertainly. Once again, he exhibited that - actually atypical - timidity and hopeful disbelief that came over him in certain situations, and which John never tired of marvelling at.

 

"May I?" he asked.

 

John held out his hand to him. "I insist. You can wash off that cigarette smell at the same time - just like you always do when you've been smoking in secret."

 

Sherlock had already grasped John's hand, his smile almost bashful, but froze when he heard those words. He studied John's face attentively. When he didn't discover anything other than indulgent amusement without a trace of anger or irritation, his posture relaxed again and he released a sigh of surrender.

 

"How long have you known?" he asked, finally joining John under the warm spray of water.

 

"Long enough," John answered evasively, but with a gentle smile, handing Sherlock his shower gel. "Here..." he said, winking. "You can wash my back."

 

Sherlock distributed the foamy gel over John's back in slow, circular motions as John arched toward him luxuriantly. The drops of water on John's skin, the wet strands of hair hanging into his face, the little rivulets that formed on his neck and shoulders and ran down over his spine and his scar in cascades that formed and reformed … Sherlock found it all fascinating and arousing. His pulse rate sped up, and a concentrated heat arose between his legs, becoming stronger and stronger.

 

"There's just one thing I'd like to know," John said in a dark voice coloured by his enjoyment of the warmth and Sherlock's hands. "Who's giving you the cigarettes?"

 

"If you don't know yet, I'm not going to tell you," Sherlock said. "I don't want him to get into trouble."

 

John chuckled softly. " _Him_... all right, that narrows the field of suspects down quite a bit. So it can't be the maid or my cook. That leaves... hmmm... the gardener, Thomas, and Jacques. We can eliminate my bodyguards and Mike." A sumptuous moan interrupted his deliberations, as Sherlock - in an attempt to distract him - began to massage his arse. "I put my money on Thomas," John finally said with a sigh of contentment. "As for the others … I'm afraid they..."

 

"They're civil to me," Sherlock broke in tonelessly. His hands had ceased massaging and now rested motionlessly on John's hips.

 

John turned around to face him. "I can't order them to like you," he said, and it sounded a little like an apology.

 

"It's fine, John," Sherlock assuaged him. "I always get what I ask for. I don't require anything more."

 

John exhaled audibly. "All right. I have to admit I wouldn't have liked to intervene. For the first time in years, I have a household that runs smoothly because everyone gets on. It's really no picnic to have the staff constantly at each other's throats."

 

At that moment, Sherlock couldn't decide which of the two topics was more unpleasant for him, and so he asked randomly, "Who gave me away? I only smoked in the garden, showered and changed immediately after … and whenever I did smoke in my room, it was with the window open and I blew the smoke out as far as possible."

 

"Yeah, you thought you were pretty clever," John replied with a smirk. "But... once in a while I look over the footage from the security cameras myself. You didn't think of that. I saw you in the garden and in your window."

 

Security cameras.

 

Sherlock froze.

 

There was a critical moment when he wondered whether he were going to be sick, but then the moment passed and his heart began to beat in rhythm again.

 

Security cameras … how could he have forgotten about that?

 

"Sherlock? What... are you all right?" John's dark blue eyes blinked up at him with a hint of concern.

 

"Who has access to the recordings?" Sherlock asked frantically.

 

John's hands grasped Sherlock's upper arms. "Sherlock, why don't you just tell me what you're..."

 

"Don't ask, John," Sherlock cut him off sharply. "You promised. Just answer the question: who has access to the recordings?"

 

John swiped the wet hair away from his forehead and pressed his lips together unhappily.

 

"No one. No one has access. The cameras aren't remote controlled and aren't hooked into the internet. The data transfer goes through cables. The cables aren't used for anything else. It's a closed system. The live images are displayed on monitors that are watched by one of the security guards. At the same time, everything gets recorded onto a DVD and archived for a year here in the basement. Only the security detail and myself have access. I sometimes make spot checks. And that's when... I saw you."

 

Sherlock's thoughts were racing and he worried at his lower lip. Was it possible for the data to end up in the wrong hands? How could he have been so stupid?! How could he - after everything he'd been through - not have thought of the security cameras? After he'd avoided the accursed things for years - had even developed a remarkable skill in doing so despite the fact that he'd been stoned half the time.

 

"Sherlock … you're safe here," John's voice seeped through to him faintly.

 

Sherlock blinked and stared down into John's resolute, earnest features. John's hands were still wrapped around Sherlock's upper arms, and his thumbs caressed calming circles across his skin. Sherlock forced himself to exhale. Once he did so, he felt the tension slowly leeching out of him.

 

He sank into John's dark blue eyes, took John's face gently between his hands and tilted it up. Then he kissed him. Softly, hungrily, and with a sense of desperation. Felt the narrow mouth open for him and receive him tenderly. Sherlock separated his mouth from John's, tilted his head to the other side and renewed their deep kiss, which quickly became wetter and more indecent without losing any of its gentleness. Their tongues met, twined incessantly around each other, licked over teeth, sucked on lips. Over and over again they breathed in each other's warmth and proximity. Shared their breath before their lips met once more for a new, never-ending kiss.

 

At some point it was over and both were satiated with their kisses. Sherlock was still holding John's face in both his hands, while John's arms had wrapped themselves around Sherlock's torso.

 

"Next time, brush your teeth _before_ you kiss me," John whispered gruffly. "You always did before."

 

"I can't always think of everything," Sherlock whispered back unrepentantly, pressing one last defiant kiss onto his lips. His desire for John flared up again, but his body didn't keep pace for once, and John's genitals also lay soft and indifferent against Sherlock's thigh. It was disappointing, yet Sherlock didn't take it as a huge catastrophe. Their kisses had also satisfied him and stilled a hunger that he couldn't quite parse, now that it had been fed and retreated.

 

John swatted him on the rear and got out of the shower. "Finish up in there and wash your hair while you're at it. The tobacco smell really gets trapped in there," he advised, wrapping a towel around his hips.

 

Sherlock watched him regretfully. Apparently there wasn't going to be any shower sex today. Although he didn't feel any particularly burning desire following their exchange of kisses, it still meant the loss of a prime opportunity. With a soft sigh, he reached for John's shower gel. At least he'd smell like John for the rest of the day.

 

While John combed his hair in front of the mirror and Sherlock secretly dreamed of licking the droplets of water off John's body with his tongue, something occurred to John.

 

"Is it actually harder to quit smoking than drugs?"

 

The question caught Sherlock off guard, and he had to think fast to decide how much he wanted to reveal to John. The difference lay in the reasons behind it.

 

He'd taken the drugs to make his life halfway bearable - that wasn't really a problem. John would understand that. As his life at Irene's hadn't been unbearable, it had been relatively easy for him to do without the drugs.

 

"It's not really like that," Sherlock finally answered. "Smoking is the last vice I indulge in … perhaps that's the reason." He tried to sound as nonchalant as possible.

 

John gave him a brief look before smearing shaving foam on his face. "If it makes you happy. They're your lungs after all."

 

Sherlock exhaled in relief.

 

Nicotine wasn't really the last addiction he had. But the fulfilment of his other addiction - John's semen in his mouth - was being withheld. What other choice did he have than to fall back on a substitute in the form of a cigarette?

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

When John made a notation in his day planner one day, he was shocked to realise that Sherlock had been living under his roof for over four weeks already.

 

It had been surprisingly easy to get used to Sherlock's presence... John shook his head even as - unbeknownst to him - an almost tender smile flitted across his lips.

 

His fears had been completely groundless. Yes, he'd seen it as a problem that John's two worlds - which he'd split his time between for all these months, and which he actually wanted to keep strictly separate - would be irrevocably intermingled through Sherlock's arrival.

 

John had very much enjoyed leaving the whole _Doc_ Watson thing behind during the hours he spent at Miss Adler's establishment. That was no longer possible, but it wasn't so bad … because Sherlock, wonderful, naïve man that he sometimes was, continued to see only John in him - the mob boss came in a distant second. And that was something that John hadn't expected at all. It was quite liberating.

 

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Sherlock couldn't deny it any longer … He was bored. To death. John was gone more often these days. There were fewer than three weeks left before the mayoral elections, and Mike was monopolising all of John's time.

 

Sherlock had called down to the kitchen to have a sandwich and tea brought up. He was sitting in the living room, wearing one of the new suits John had had made for him by his tailor, trying to get into ‘ _The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_ ’, when Thomas brought in his order; Sherlock decided to toss out all of his misgivings and restraint, and spoke to Thomas directly.

 

"Thomas?"

 

"Yeah, I'm sorry - Jacques refuses to give up any of his almond biscuits. He's even gone so far as to lock them up in a cupboard..." Thomas replied with an apologetic gesture. "He bakes them himself, you know? Not even Mrs Turner's allowed to see the recipe. Usually, everyone gets a biscuit with his coffee or tea … only with you..." Thomas realised a second too late what he was saying and cleared his throat sheepishly. "Would you like anything else?" he asked instead, adjusted the plate once more on the table, and straightened up to give Sherlock a questioning look.

 

Sherlock bit his lower lip nervously before gathering himself. Thomas was always a bit too familiar, but at least he didn't condescend to him the way Jacques did, and he always served him with a friendly smile. Plus, he smuggled cigarettes into the house for him without squealing. If he were going to get a reasonable answer out of anyone, Thomas was his only option. He swallowed and then asked the question that had been nagging at him for some time now.

 

"What did John's other … _guests_ … do to pass the time?"

 

Thomas blinked in understanding, lending him a mischievous air for a moment. "You must be getting bored?" he asked, then went on without waiting for an answer. "Most of them took Mr Watson's credit card and went shopping," he said with a shrug. "A couple of them went to spas … and one..." He snickered quietly at the memory. "One of them went out and lay in the garden buck naked and tanned whenever he could." Thomas paused, a little helplessly. "Then there were the ones with a weakness for video games, others watched telly for hours on end... but none of them were as obviously bored as you." After another moment, Thomas seemed to remember that he was talking to his boss' lover, and hurried to add, "If I may say so."

 

Sherlock just waved it off, and Thomas grinned again. "I can't think of anything else... You know about the gym in the basement..."

 

The gym! It took some effort for Sherlock to suppress a snort. The gym was a room with tiny, narrow windows and a punching bag hanging from the ceiling, where John stored his weights. There was also a treadmill and a stationary bicycle. At least Sherlock could use the space for his stretching exercises and to keep somewhat in practise with his baritsu. He'd done the same thing when he lived with Irene, but in the long run it didn't do a thing for the leaden ennui that fell over him whenever John wasn't there. He felt so terribly useless. Like a parasite. It was almost as bad as back before he'd decided to work for Irene.

 

"I'm afraid I can't help you any further," Thomas said, gave Sherlock a nod and an apologetic look, and started for the door. Halfway there, however, he stopped and turned hesitantly back toward Sherlock.

 

"A little tip in passing … never … no matter what ... call him _Doc Watson._ He hates that." Thomas swivelled on his heel and headed rather hastily for the door.

 

Sherlock, who was a bit thrown by the advice, recovered from his bewilderment just in time to call Thomas back before he left the room.

 

"Thomas? What... why did you tell me that?"

 

"Well..." Thomas hemmed and hawed a bit. "Ever since you've been here, the boss has been in a really good mood. I mean - he whistles! I'd never heard him whistle before, since I've been here, and... you're all right. You're different than the others. None of them was ever as bored as you when the boss wasn't around. And you haven't had migraine _once_ … the others had it pretty often … or at least they said they did, and I always had to go get medicine and..." Thomas scratched his head sheepishly. "Doesn't matter." He took a deep breath. "All I meant was - it'd be fine with me if you end up staying on here longer, and it'd be dumb to risk anything on account of some stupid nickname."

 

Sherlock felt a little bit at sea. "Thank you," he said softly. The word was surprisingly easy to articulate, even if it still felt unfamiliar in his mouth.

 

Thomas smiled and reached for the door handle. "No problem, sir." Then he left.

 

Sherlock continued staring in shock at the spot where Thomas had just been standing. He actually couldn't care less about such titles - he'd never put any stock in them at all. Why, then, did he suddenly feel so … _good_? Just because a servant had called him ' _sir_ '?

 

Or was it because he'd finally received some recognition and respect after all these weeks? Sherlock was a tiny bit proud of himself that none of his predecessors had managed to improve John's mood to such an extent that even the staff took note of it and thought it worth mentioning.

 

His boredom forgotten for the moment, he turned to his snack with relish.

 

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

A few days later, however, his boredom was back with a vengeance.

 

He threw the Douglas Adams novel into the corner for the umpteenth time, only to jump up guiltily and retrieve the book from the floor, smooth the pages in consternation, and return it carefully to the table. After all, it wasn't his property - it belonged to John.

 

And John was, once again, not there.

 

Sherlock glanced at the clock.

 

Shortly before ten … John had only been gone for an hour.

 

Agitated, he left the living room, went down the stairs and out into the garden. But not even a turn in the fresh air did any good. On top of everything else, the early spring had given way to a rather odious April. The sun was shining, to be sure, but the air was damp and the rising wind was cold, driving Sherlock back into the house.

 

There, he resumed his restless wanderings around the ground floor. At some point, he became aware of the fact that he was pacing back and forth in front of John's office, and stopped abruptly in front of the door.

 

John's office.

 

The only place he didn't want Sherlock to be.

 

Sherlock didn't waste any time on an internal debate. He was curious, he was bored - he wanted to go in there, now. He knew full well what he'd promised John, but at the moment he couldn't care less. Without thinking about it overly much, he ran upstairs to his room and groped around between his socks until he found the little case with his lockpicking tools. He regarded it with mixed emotions. It was a leftover from his time on the streets, where it had often been quite helpful when he wanted a roof over his head for the night - or a quiet spot to shoot up. Sherlock forced himself not to think of that and went back down to John's office.

 

Standing in front of it again, his breaths came quicker. He stole a glance around, but couldn't see a soul other than himself. It was a good thing John had instructed his staff to come out only when they were summoned. Sherlock's lips curled into a gleeful grin as he set about picking the lock on the door to John's office. It wasn't as easy as the back doors of remote warehouses, but after a while there was a _click_ and the lock sprang open. Without further ado, Sherlock opened the door, only to stop on the threshold in a fit of self-consciousness.

 

He virtually had to force himself to take the first step.

 

Is this what it felt like to enter an empty church? A church whose deity one believed in for a change?

 

He looked around uneasily. He really shouldn't be here... but then his eye fell on one of the binders that John had left lying open on his desk, and all his scruples went out the window. His interest piqued, Sherlock slowly sank down onto John's chair and began reading the files.

 

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

John was tired, exhausted, and a little bit peeved when he came home late that afternoon with Mike on his heels.

 

"Can't the mail wait until tomorrow?" he begged unabashedly.

 

"No, John. Sorry. Those letters have to go out today," Mike answered. "Go on ahead - I have to use the loo."

 

"Slave driver..." John murmured to himself, but went obediently to his office. When he reached out to open the door, however, he discovered that it was already unlocked. "What the..." he swore softly, putting his hand on his gun, ready to draw it. Only then did he push the door open.

 

The sight that greeted him, however, was one he couldn't have anticipated in his wildest dreams. Sherlock sat on _his_ chair at _his_ desk, leafing calmly through _his_ papers. John was so flabbergasted that he was incapable of making a single sound. He just stared open-mouthed at Sherlock, who appeared to be completely in his element.

 

"Ah, John!" Sherlock called when he noticed him. "Good thing you're here. Your translator is an idiot. I've redone his draft for the letter to Colombia. My Spanish is a little rusty, to be sure, but I think I was able to convey your annoyance more clearly than the mumbo-jumbo from your translator that you were going to send. I've translated the inquiry from Germany for you - that's right here." He indicated some sheets on the edge of the desk. "You can dictate the letter for Italy to me later - that doesn't need to go out for two days. And then..." He scanned the jumble of papers in front of him until his expression brightened. "Oh yes - the invoice from Soho..." He shook his head. "They're trying to cheat you. It wasn't entirely easy to tease it out - they did it quite well … but the figures are fabricated. I can show you if you'd like." Once he was done, Sherlock took a deep breath, placed the fingertips of both hands against each other, leaned back in John's chair, and waited with bated breath and a pounding heart for the inevitable thunderstorm.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_**To be continued...** _

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Puccini's ‘ _Turandot_ ’ … I chose the opera because the libretto seemed appropriate. A princess who has every suitor beheaded who can't solve her riddle, and ends up finding love in the end anyway? If that's not spot on!

 

<http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Turandot>

 

 

The overture:

<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3C_3DcoDXFU>

 

 

And the Champagne Aria from ‘ _Don Giovanni’_ :

<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nOg058ObrDU>

 

 

Lyrics:

 

“ _While I go prying, Pretty girls eyeing, Tenderly sighing, Till they are won. Many tomorrow, Not to my sorrow...”_

 

Why that one in particular? No special reason … I think it's probably easy to whistle and ‘ _Don Giovanni_ ’ tackles topics like sexual excesses, grey morals, and murder.

 

Curious?

[en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Don_Giovanni](en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Don_Giovanni)

 

 

 

 


	21. Disclosure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translation by the fabulous SwissMiss!!!

**Chapter 21: Disclosure**

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

"Ah, John!" Sherlock called when he noticed him. "Good thing you're here. Your translator is an idiot. I've redone his draft for the letter to Colombia. My Spanish is a little rusty, to be sure, but I think I was able to convey your annoyance more clearly than the mumbo-jumbo from your translator that you were going to send. I've translated the inquiry from Germany for you - that's right here." He indicated some sheets on the edge of the desk. "You can dictate the letter for Italy to me later - that doesn't need to go out for two days. And then..." He scanned the jumble of papers in front of him until his expression brightened. "Oh yes - the invoice from Soho..." He shook his head. "They're trying to cheat you. It wasn't entirely easy to tease it out - they did it quite well … but the figures are fabricated. I can show you if you'd like." Once he was done, Sherlock took a deep breath, placed the fingertips of both hands against each other, leaned back in John's chair, and waited with bated breath and a pounding heart for the inevitable thunderstorm.

 

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

It wasn't easy for Sherlock to maintain a cool, composed facade the entire time. He knew perfectly well that he was in the wrong. Not only had he disregarded a direct order from John, he'd also broken the promise he'd given him.

 

John had never committed any offence against him that was as bad as Sherlock picking that lock. John had kept every single one of his promises, had respected every condition and wish Sherlock had ever expressed. Well - John had sometimes left himself some room for interpretation … but he'd never misused Sherlock's trust the way Sherlock had just done. Sherlock knew that, and he felt miserable about it.

 

And then the unexpected occurred.

 

John snapped his gaping jaw shut with an audible _click_ , turned halfway around to the still open door, and yelled, "Mike! Stop pissing this second and get in here! Those bloody arsewipes in Soho! I KNEW it! I _knew_ those wankers were going to try and screw me over!! Ever since Graves got in with them, something's been off!"

 

Sherlock heard a door open and close, and rapid steps approaching through the entry hall, and then Mike was standing in the doorway, out of breath and fumbling with the flies of his trousers. He froze mid-motion when he saw Sherlock sitting at John's desk.

 

"What's he doing here?" Mike blurted out, sending a confused look in John's direction. "I thought you didn't want him to..."

 

"I've no idea what he's doing here or how he got in here," John replied grimly. "But it's a bloody good thing he did, or we'd never have caught on to them. What am I paying that army of accountants for anyway? Can you tell me that?"

 

"It's not an _army_ , John. There are three of them," Mike tried to calm him. Then he looked at Sherlock with a bewildered frown. "I looked at the invoices myself and didn't see anything. How..."

 

"Exactly," John cut in, giving Sherlock a sharp look. "How did you figure it out?"

 

Sherlock swallowed. Going by the expression on John's face, the thunder wasn't past; it was simply arriving a bit later than expected. An uneasy feeling came over Sherlock, and he wondered what in the world he'd been thinking to break into John's office like that. He'd probably hoped it wouldn't be so bad. After all, John had been rather indulgent with him lately. Perhaps too indulgent. He hadn't done anything more than tease him about smoking in secret, even though he'd made it clear it was strictly forbidden back when Sherlock had moved in. Had that made Sherlock careless? Probably.

 

While Sherlock showed the two men the invoices and receipts and explained where the manipulations and deceptions were, he kept glancing worriedly at John's face. Disconcertingly, he couldn't read anything there. The only signal was a long, deep furrow - boding nothing good - that remained embedded between his eyebrows the entire time. Still, John listened carefully and attentively to Sherlock's explanations, interrupting only when he needed something clarified, and even bickered a bit with Mike over whether anyone could be trusted anymore.

 

When there was nothing left to say, Sherlock folded his hands in his lap and looked up at John - still standing in front of the desk with Mike - with a calm he didn't actually feel. John's face remained impassive, and he returned Sherlock's gaze with calculating coolness. Sherlock's stomach contracted anxiously. What if John sent him away now? He shivered, and his heart pounded in agony and distress against his chest. Anything but that. He'd even beg to stay if need be.

 

Mike gathered some of the receipts into a file folder and sorted through the invoices.

 

"Mike?" John addressed him, and Mike looked up from what he was doing. "You'll have to excuse us for a moment." John's gaze flickered briefly over Sherlock. "Sherlock?" Then John went to the door without checking to see if Sherlock was following him.

 

He didn't need to. As soon as John said his name, Sherlock jumped up and went after him.

 

Mike watched the two men exit with an expression of mild interest. Once the door had closed behind them and he heard their footsteps receding up the stairs, he clicked his tongue in disapproval. He had to admit, though - that Sherlock did have a head for numbers.

 

OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

Sherlock followed John into John's bedroom, his heart hammering. His head felt strangely empty, and he was incapable of forming a single clear thought.

 

Without turning around, John said coldly, "Close the door behind you and kneel down."

 

Sherlock's heart, which had been beating wildly before, froze at those words. Still, he did everything John asked, even though he felt something die inside him. John had never ordered him to kneel in that tone of voice before.

 

It wasn't until Sherlock was crouched on his heels with his hands on his thighs that John turned around. Sherlock only knew it by the position of his shoes. He couldn't bear to lift his head.

 

"Look at me," John commanded with such calm and control that an icy cold shiver ran down Sherlock's back.

 

Sherlock shook his head and squeezed his eyelids together.

 

"I'm not going to say it again, Sherlock," John said, still with that cool detachment that was worse than any screaming and ranting would have been.

 

Sherlock swallowed hard. Why was his throat so dry while his eyes threatened to overflow? He raised his head slowly and hesitantly until he was looking at the collar of John's black polo neck.

 

John sucked on his upper lip so hard Sherlock could hear it. "Those aren't my eyes," he remarked without so much as a trace of humour or amusement.

 

Once again, Sherlock swallowed with difficulty and lifted his eyes a bit higher until he reached John's face. John nodded tersely, satisfied.

 

"You do recall that I told you I didn't want to see you in my office?" John asked so calmly it was eerie.

 

"Yes," Sherlock admitted his error. It was difficult to say the word, yet he forced himself to as it was the truth.

 

"Mhm." John made a sound as if his suspicion had just become certainty. "So you knew exactly what you were doing?"

 

"Yes," Sherlock responded hoarsely. He felt his hands begin to tremble on his thighs.

 

John pulled his upper lip in between his teeth. "You knew it was wrong and you did it anyway?" he asked quietly.

 

"Yes," Sherlock confirmed. At that point, he couldn't stand John's cold, penetrating look any longer, and bowed his head, disregarding any possible consequences. John's deadpan eyes cut him to the quick, right to the centre of his soul. He couldn't - _wouldn't_ \- take the agony a single second longer.

 

John's iron control made it impossible for Sherlock to plead his innocence, sob out admissions or plead tearfully for forgiveness. It was an extremely effective approach, Sherlock had to admit, even if it made him feel the weight of his own guilt and his own lapse of judgement so much more heavily than he already did.

 

"Don't send me away," Sherlock whispered in desperation when John didn't tell him to look at him again, instead letting the silence drag on between them.

 

An unhappy bark of laughter sounded.

 

"There it is again - a demand, not a request," John said. "You never ask, you demand! Unbelievable. Simply unbelievable." John's shoes and legs paced back and forth before Sherlock's lowered gaze in short, rapid steps. Then they stopped in front of him once again. "How about an apology? Not even one word of explanation?" He sounded a bit more upset than before. But there was still a deadly calm behind the question.

 

"There isn't one," Sherlock said, closing his eyes.

 

"Honest to the end," John remarked in a peculiar tone of voice. "Fine," he said after a moment. "Let's move on to your punishment. Straighten up. Hands behind your back."

 

Sherlock allowed himself a bit of hope at those words and opened his eyes again. He could take anything, anything at all, as long as John didn't send him away! And that really didn't sound like sending away. He followed the instructions as quickly as he could, although he kept his head bowed.

 

John's hand touched the bottom of Sherlock's chin, forcing it up. Then he waited until Sherlock was able to meet his stern gaze.

 

"I'm going to slap you twice," John said firmly. "First with the palm of my hand on your right cheek, then with the back of my hand on your left cheek. You will keep your teeth locked together, as I don't want to dislocate your jaw or have you bite your tongue by mistake. I'll hold you by the hair with my other hand to help stabilise your head and minimise the risk of injury to your neck. You will not twitch or flinch - I might hit your ear otherwise, and that might damage your eardrum." John took a quick breath. "You will keep your eyes on me the entire time. Have you understood?"

 

"Two slaps?" Sherlock said, confused. That was hardly a punishment! "That's all? Just two slaps?"

 

"Oh, don't worry," John answered with a cold chuckle. "It's going to hurt. And it's going to be a sufficient punishment." He hesitated a moment before asking, "Have you never actually been slapped before?"

 

"Of course," Sherlock said after brief reflection. He'd been hit in the face many times. He recalled fleetingly the last time Irene had slapped him when he'd thrown a tantrum because he'd thought his client wanted to get into his arse … that had been so long ago now … He hadn't really felt the impact strongly that time. Even though Irene's punch packed more than enough power, he'd been too angry and upset to feel the pain. On the other hand, he'd never received a slap like this before … in cold blood and meant as a punishment. An uneasy prickling sensation spread through his abdomen.

 

John let go of his chin, and Sherlock readied himself. He straightened his back and tensed his jaw muscles. His arse and he both knew how hard John could hit, and with what power. John's ' _it's going to hurt'_ wasn't just an empty promise. When John buried his fingers in Sherlock's hair and held fast, Sherlock plucked up his courage - how different could this be to his previous experiences?

 

Sherlock held completely still, his eyes locked on John's. John reached back, and Sherlock automatically held his breath.

 

The blow hit his cheek with cold precision. His head jerked to the side even with John's grip on his hair. He didn't feel anything at first. Just a peculiar numbness. But then the pain exploded across the entire right side of his face. Sherlock opened his mouth, gasping, and John swore.

 

"Close your mouth, dammit!" John barked at him. "Close your mouth this instant! I almost..." As if through a layer of cotton wool, Sherlock heard John grinding his teeth.

 

Sherlock blinked blearily then clamped his mouth firmly shut. A split second later, the back of John's hand impacted with his other cheek. Again, his head flew to the side despite John's safety precautions. Still, it didn't hurt as much as the first one had. Maybe because he'd been ready for it, or maybe because the second wave of pain was swallowed up in the first.

 

What Sherlock hadn't been ready for, however, was the pain of the humiliation and rejection that accompanied the blows, and which he only became aware of now that his entire face seemed to be on fire.

 

The shame of his error threatened to overwhelm him. There was no anger and no adrenaline to make the hurt bearable. There was no lust and no desire to transform the ache into something sensual.

 

He was alone with his disgrace and his pain.

 

The awareness of just how wrong he'd been hit him with full force, driving tears into his eyes. The hands he'd held behind his back let go now, flying to the legs of John's trousers, where they scrabbled desperately for a hold. Although John was the one who had dealt the blows, it was he from whom he sought comfort … and perhaps forgiveness. Just as he was about to bury his face - blinded by tears - in John's lap, careful, gentle hands on his cheeks held him back.

 

Confused, Sherlock stopped moving and blinked up at John, dazed. John's eyes appeared almost dark violet and looked down at him with a hint of concern.

 

"Shhhh..." John made soothing sounds. "Don't cry, Sherlock. Not now. It wouldn't be very good if I..."

 

"Not now?" Sherlock sniffled in surprise, but then his eyes fell to the spot between John's legs and he began to understand. "You find tears … arousing?"

 

"You haven't noticed before?" John retorted with a lopsided grin. "Come on..." he said. He carefully removed Sherlock's fingers from his trousers and held his hands. "Stand up."

 

When Sherlock didn't react immediately, John held their joined hands up higher.

 

"Get up," he said, smiling in an encouraging way. "Your punishment is over. Let's move on to your reward."

 

"Reward?" Sherlock asked, perplexed, as he finally stood on wobbly legs. Why in the world did he feel that John had somehow protected him - sanctified him, even … as if the punishment were some kind of perverse anointing?

 

"You say that like you don't believe it," John replied with a tight smile. "Of course you've earned a reward!" His smile broadened and lit up his eyes. "Without you..." He shook his head. "Without you, we'd never have uncovered that mess. Never!" John concluded emphatically.

 

Sherlock's head spun.

 

The change in John's behaviour was too sudden, too fast for him to comprehend, to process.

 

Now John was acting the way Sherlock was familiar with. Despite his severity, he was respectful, indulgent, considerate - there was even a certain tenderness. Whereas just minutes ago there had been nothing more than icy control, cold and almost deadheartedness; John had never been more foreign to him, for although he'd been strict and unbending with Sherlock before (just the way Sherlock liked it), there had always been some kind of consideration and respect present that had been completely missing today. Or had it been?

 

Sherlock thought about the measures John had taken in order not to hurt him more than necessary, not to deal him any real damage. He hadn't struck out in a blind fury, but had acted with deliberation. Sherlock shook his head as if driving away an annoying insect. He'd have to go over it all later. Later … when his head wasn't topsy-turvy and the buzzing burn in his face wasn't causing emotions and desires he didn't care to think about - now that the immediate danger was past. It was all complicated enough, with one question looming over everything else: was John actually _grateful_ to _him_? To Sherlock?

 

"You're not... angry … anymore?" It sounded childish, it sounded stupid, but he had to ask. Had to know whether everything was taken care of with his punishment, or whether...

 

John pursed his lips pensively. "No, I'm not angry with you anymore. I'm not even certain I was really angry with you in the first place. Don't get me wrong - I was pissed off that you just ignored my instructions. But angry …" He shrugged his shoulders. "Either way - your punishment took care of it for me. I promise."

 

"You're probably going to throw it back in my face at some point," Sherlock pointed out, resigned.

 

"Yeah, I assume so," John replied good-naturedly. "Whenever you don't toe the line. Constantly, in other words." He shrugged again. "But I always knew that you only follow those instructions you want to."

 

A rueful smile appeared on Sherlock's lips. "I'll try..."

 

"Oh, please..." John cut him off. "Spare me. Don't make any promises you can't keep."

 

"You know me too well," Sherlock said soberly. "Most people would think that reason enough to never have anything to do with me again."

 

John shrugged once again. "I know. What can I say? For some inexplicable reason, I've taken a fancy to you," he said lightly before taking a deep breath. "Aren't you the least bit curious what your reward might be?"

 

It was quite unlike Sherlock, but he'd completely forgot that John had mentioned a reward, in spite of everything.

 

"What is it?" he asked, since John obviously expected him to, although the question came out sounding somewhat suspicious.

 

John grinned, having noticed the distinct lack of enthusiasm. He placed one hand on the back of Sherlock's neck and pulled him down until his mouth was next to Sherlock's ear.

 

"Tonight..." He licked lightly over the tantalising earlobe and heard Sherlock's faint gasp. "Your mouth..." He ghosted a kiss onto the spot behind Sherlock's ear. "My dick..." He felt Sherlock emit a small sound. "As long as you want - as often as you want - any way you want," John growled into his ear. "And you can swallow as much as you want." He released Sherlock, who tottered a bit as he moved away. "I've withheld it from you for long enough."

 

With a mixture of amusement and irritation - and to be completely honest, a large dose of arousal - he observed the effect his words had on Sherlock. The glassy, slightly disconnected look, the dilated pupils, the gently parted lips, the clearly visible pulsing of the veins in that long, white neck...

 

The full, still slightly open mouth suddenly lay on top of John's, kissing him with passion and desire.

 

"Why wait until tonight?" Sherlock whispered roughly against John's lips between two kisses, pressing against him in an unambiguous manner.

 

"Because we still have work to do," John said firmly - although it took all his willpower to push Sherlock away.

 

A subdued look came into the pale eyes. "Of course... You and Mike," Sherlock said, trying not to let his disappointment show. It was a vain effort.

 

But John had to smile at the sight of the lower lip thrust forward in a pout, the forlorn and disappointed look, and the ' _I can be reasonable even if I don't like it_ ' attitude.

 

"That's right," John agreed cheerfully. "Me and Mike … and you."

 

"What?" Sherlock asked in amazement.

 

"I'm not going to coddle you - I'll work you hard. You've seen how lost we are without your input," John said, enjoying the way Sherlock's face lit up.

 

It felt very good - _he_ felt very good. John wondered why that was … was it because he'd done the right thing for once? If that was really the reason for this pleasant feeling (and not just the anticipation of what was coming that night), then he asked himself why he hadn't done the right thing much sooner - at least in regards to Sherlock. Much, much sooner.

 

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Sherlock had been in John's bedroom countless times before. However, he'd never been there alone - virtually unobserved - as was the case now, with John still in the shower. Sherlock noted with a smirk that John was taking more time than usual for his personal hygiene tonight. On the other hand, Sherlock found the gesture rather touching. He decided not to let it go to his head too much, though.

 

Still somewhat lost in thought, he stood next to the bed and turned on the light on the bedside cabinet. Although it was a large bed, there was only one bedside cabinet, and only one lamp. That had always drawn Sherlock's attention in the past, but tonight was the first time he realised why: it was a sad image. This huge house - this huge bed … and only one person living in it - sleeping in it.

 

"All right, I'm..." John's voice came from the door before falling silent.

 

Once again, a smirk flitted over Sherlock's lips before he turned around. He knew exactly why John couldn't put two words together at the moment.

 

"Naked and... ready, as I see," John continued hoarsely once Sherlock was facing him.

 

"That I am," Sherlock said, smiling calmly, and casually stroking his penis, which was already broadcasting his interest loud and clear.

 

John wore his silk dressing gown - the knee-length one with the black and dark grey stripes that Sherlock particularly liked seeing him in - and held a towel in one hand. He must have just been drying his hair, which was still damp and standing up in every direction.

 

The light from the bedside lamp cast a soft, yellow-white circle on the bed and didn't do much to illuminate the rest of the room. The whole scene reflected so much domesticity that Sherlock couldn't help walking over to John, taking his face in both hands and giving him a tender kiss. Of course it was ridiculous to fancy that John was his beloved husband, just back from a hard day at the office … but for a second or two, it was a nice little fantasy.

 

The kiss continued until John murmured, "Not as impatient as I thought after all..." and Sherlock replied softly, "That's where you're wrong," and promptly sank to his knees in front of John.

 

Oh yes... there it was … that warm, wicked mouth with the firm, plump lips, tracing the outline of his cock through the material of his dressing gown and causing it to stiffen as a result of the enthusiastic caresses. The cold shower John had suffered through just a few minutes earlier was turning out to have been a sensible precaution; otherwise, he wouldn't have been able to control himself by this point. As much as this night was supposed to be a reward for Sherlock, John wanted to enjoy it to the fullest as well.

 

The long hours of work with Mike and Sherlock in his office had been a traumatic experience for John in some respects. Every time Sherlock raised a glass to his mouth, John's thoughts had wandered off in a certain direction. Every time Sherlock had tapped his finger pensively against his lips, John's thoughts had become even more explicit. Every time Sherlock had nibbled on the end of a pencil … John hadn't even known it was possible to be jealous of a pencil.

 

But now that mouth belonged to him, and him alone … The silk was wet and warm where Sherlock had breathed, kissed, and nibbled. John felt unerring hands making their way through the folds of his dressing gown, and then there was breath against his bare skin. John felt goosebumps form on his arms, and waited. But Sherlock didn't do anything other than breathe … deeply … slowly … stuttering a bit … and then … a moan … a soft moan … and then breath again, wafting gentle and warm and moist across the tip of his half-hard cock. If John had ever experienced anything more erotic before this moment, he couldn't recall it now.

 

The breaths came closer and closer until the first cautious contact between Sherlock's tongue and his glans was the only logical progression; strangely, it felt even better than the electric shock he'd expected.

 

Wet circles around the crown … the rustle of the heavy silk against his skin … the first drops … Sherlock's throaty groan … the perfect hardness between his legs, which he hadn't even noticed happening … then, finally … the warm, wet mouth … tight … sucking … the movement … up and down … up and down … nothing but mouth and tongue and lips … hands on his hips … gentle … gentle pressure … gentle pressure everywhere … gentle sucking … the red lips stretched around his erection … the taut, hollow cheeks … the eyes opening … the cloudy gaze … half-lidded eyes … fluttering … closing … gentle, so gentle … a moan … then the familiar pressure … the need for more...

 

John wanted to bury his fingers in Sherlock's hair, wanted to thrust his hips hard into that miraculous mouth, over and over again. But he kept his wits and suppressed the urge to take control over the situation. He remembered his promise. _Any way you want._ This wasn't about what _he_ wanted. This was for Sherlock. He'd earned it.

 

Instead, John laid his hands over Sherlock's, which were still resting on his hips... John grasped them, seeking a steady hold … twitching … _more_ … _more_ … the first surge … no more sucking … no licking … nothing other than the insistent, expectant, seductive pressure of that tongue on his glans...

 

John's body clenched, and then it was as if a dam broke inside him, and everything, absolutely everything flowed out of him into Sherlock's willing, expectant mouth. Pure bliss was written on that pale face, its cheeks now flushed faintly red. Sherlock didn't relinquish his prize yet, however. He continued to trace circles with his tongue around the slowly softening penis in his mouth … so warm and so slick... John shuddered one last time as he realised that Sherlock hadn't swallowed yet. With the back of one slightly shaky hand, John wiped the perspiration off his upper lip. A muted, shameless, throaty moan vibrated around John's depleted cock, and it was only then that he felt the muscles contracting as Sherlock swallowed.

 

John bit down hard on his lips.

 

No - there was no way he was getting it up again at the moment.

 

His penis twitched hopefully but in vain, and then there was cold. Sherlock had let him go.

 

John looked down at where Sherlock was still crouched; he wiped the last bit of semen from the corner of his mouth with his thumb only to lick it clean. Another hopeful but useless twitch. Dammit. Then John's gaze fell on Sherlock's erection, jutting up proud and eager between his thighs.

 

"Do you want... or should I?" John asked imprecisely, wondering at the gruffness in his voice.

 

Sherlock shook his head. "Not important," he said offhandedly. "That can wait. Come to bed." Sherlock got up with enviable, catlike grace and stood in front of John. He put one hand on the back of John's neck and kissed his throat. Gentle yet demanding. His other hand pushed the dressing gown off John's left shoulder and before John could voice a protest, the gentle, moist lips touched the ugly skin of his scar. John closed his eyes and shivered. Then he suddenly found his hands on Sherlock's dark locks, holding his head and his mouth in that position. Sherlock nestled against him, covering the scar with sweet, hot kisses that released an unaccustomed warmth and lightness in John's chest.

 

Much too soon, Sherlock straightened up again, and John - ridiculous as it was - felt a loss when the caresses came to an end.

 

"You don't need this anymore," Sherlock said softly, untied the belt of John's dressing gown, and slid it off John's shoulders. The elegant garment sank to the floor, where it landed beside the towel, likewise forgotten, which had slipped out of John's fingers at some point during the proceedings.

 

Sherlock took John's hand and led him to his bed.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

When John let him know that he was ready for a second round, Sherlock manoeuvred him into a kneeling position, his legs spread and his upper body supported by his arms. Sherlock responded to John's sceptically raised eyebrow with nothing more than a mischievous smile before he wriggled in under John's body, his head right between John's knees, leaving John with an unimpeded view of Sherlock's crotch.

 

Sherlock's hands roamed across John's thighs and arse.

 

"A little lower..." he said, and John acquiesced.

 

"69?" John asked, raising both eyebrows as Sherlock's semi-hard penis came closer to his mouth.

 

"No, John," came the impassive reply. "I said that's not important. But you can fuck my throat quite deep in this position. It's the best way."

 

"Oh my God..."

 

"I can overextend my neck, and you..."

 

"Don't talk so much!" John told him gruffly. "Just start!"

 

"I can't think of anything I'd rather do." Sherlock's smile was audible through his words.

 

"You and that impudent mouth of yours... I should really..." John drew in a sharp breath when Sherlock took most of his erection into his mouth at once. "Oooooohhhhh... fuuuuck," John panted.

 

John's gasps were music to Sherlock's ears. John's voice in his head... his mouth filled with John's stiff penis... John's smell in his nose... the taste of John's arousal on his tongue...

 

With a soft moan - whose vibrations he knew John could feel in his erection - Sherlock relaxed his throat and took in even more of John's length. The first taste of bitterness spread across his tongue and ran down his throat, and Sherlock pulled back just a bit to catch a breath. But then he pushed John's hips down even further with his hands, and tilted his neck back. John's swollen, hard cock slid much too slowly into his mouth and down his throat. The pressure there was fantastic … tight and hot and wet … his nose pressed against John's testicles, hanging heavy and full between his legs … and then suddenly he felt John's pubic hair tickling his chin. He swallowed - the muscles of his esophagus squeezed around John's erection. There was a muffled sound - half moan, half cry - and Sherlock swallowed again, resulting in John's hips jerking forward, albeit in a restrained manner.

 

' _Oh God - yes, please!_ ' Sherlock thought to himself feverishly. He didn't want it gentle … cautious … tender. He wanted it hard and fast and deep. Didn't want to just taste John's sperm, but to feel it … the surge, the spurt … deep in his throat. Wanted, just a bit, the pain, the feeling of being wounded … the excessive stretch. He wanted it all - and he wanted it now. Before he ran out of air.

 

He struggled for breath. His blood rushed in his ears. He groaned and pushed on John's arse with his hands, and John finally got the message.

 

The first thrust was still careful … feeling him out … but then John threw caution out the window.

 

Deep, hard thrusts, sending Sherlock into a fit of ecstasy and allowing him to forget the insufficient air supply. He felt John rear back one last time, the final swelling, the increase in pressure and then... a cry … a flood against his gums and palate … Sherlock relaxed his throat, fended off his gag reflex and felt John release hot and heavy inside him.

 

Stars danced before Sherlock's eyes. With a strange equanimity, he wondered whether he was going to faint, but then John's erection softened in his mouth, diminished in size, and the air he so desperately needed flowed into his lungs. The stars twinkled a while longer before fading. The remaining greyness at the edges of his field of vision disappeared, and Sherlock pressed himself up against John's groin once more, swallowed and sucked until he heard John cursing softly, and then let go of him, feeling somewhat lightheaded.

 

John slumped down to the side, where he lay on his back, breathing heavily.

 

Sherlock's throat burned.

 

Then... John's hand felt tentatively for Sherlock's erection. The stars twinkled anew. Sherlock gasped for air, almost in desperation. An awkward up-and-down. Exhausted. Careless. And yet, more than enough.

 

Sherlock cried out … but nothing more than a rattle escaped his lips. Colourful stars. Grey edges. The height of desire. The climax broke over him like a force of nature. White light. Trembling. And then... nothing. A weak echo. Breathlessness. Satiation. A never before known contentment.

 

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

The soft skin behind John's balls tasted salty. Like sweat. A little like John's shower gel. A trace of gunpowder and gun oil. Sherlock breathed it in, enjoying the scent, and licked the area with his flattened tongue.

 

John sighed. He lay on his back on the bed with Sherlock between his splayed legs, intently scrutinising his primary genitalia.

 

Sherlock licked the sensitive, swollen testicles then sucked them carefully until they contracted even more.

 

John groaned.

 

Sherlock nibbled at the root of John's penis, which was hesitant to rise.

 

John gasped.

 

When Sherlock finally succeeded in eliciting a functional erection from John, his tongue and lips dedicated themselves to John's glans, while his hands moved over the shaft in gentle yet relentless motions.

 

John whimpered.

 

"Sherlock, this is insane..."

 

Sherlock didn't deign to reply. Instead, he continued licking the tip of John's penis. Finally. The first clear drops... they were immediately lapped up, with pleasure, by Sherlock's busy tongue.

 

"Oh God... Sherlock … what are you doing?"

 

Sherlock's tongue kept moving across the tiny, narrow slit in the tip of John's penis, out of which the precious, clear drops oozed in increasingly smaller intervals. Becoming greedy after a while, he finally tried invading the little opening with the tip of his tongue.

 

John wheezed.

 

"Sherlock … I... I..."

 

Sherlock prodded the slit relentlessly with his tongue. Teased and stimulated John's glans and finally scraped his fingernails lightly over John's tightened testicles.

 

A weak, rattling whine escaped John's throat.

 

Sherlock intensified his efforts with his hands, licking the sensitive head just once more before opening his mouth over it and waiting.

 

John's burning gaze focused on him, yet all of Sherlock's attention was on the hard, painfully throbbing shaft. John bit down on his lips and his entire body tensed. The throbbing in his groin slowed but became more intense.

 

"Now..." John gasped breathlessly even as he saw the first spurt land on Sherlock's chin before he let his head fall back onto the mattress. The orgasm that shook his depleted body wasn't very strong, but it was possessed of a singular depth, and left him feeling exhausted and completely wrung out.

 

He blinked tiredly, seeking Sherlock's eyes; when he found them, he forgot to breathe.

 

Wild, dark curls surrounded Sherlock's flushed face. Beads of perspiration decorated his forehead, and a few strands of hair were plastered to his temples. His gentle, blissful face bore an expression of utter devotion. The full lips, swollen and red from their incessant activity, were barely parted. The fascinating, clear eyes were still fixed on John's wilted penis with a greedy gleam.

 

A thick, fat drop of semen hung from the edge of Sherlock's lower lip, and a viscous, opaque thread stretched from there to his upper lip.

 

The thought flashed through John's mind: _"Like a fallen angel."_ He wanted a picture of it. Of that face. A painting he could always look at whenever he wanted to. Preserve that heavenly sinfulness forever. A painting he could hang over a little altar, like an icon. An altar he would fall on his knees before every day to pray and … to masturbate. Who was he kidding?

 

Sherlock's tongue passed over his lips, cleaning them slowly and thoroughly, before he bowed his head to lap up the rest of the semen from John's stomach and penis.

 

Then he sighed and stretched like a cat who got the cream. He folded his arms over John's stomach and rested his chin on them.

 

"How soon can you go again?" he asked sportingly.

 

"You really want to go again?" John groaned.

 

"You promised _as often as I want!_ "

 

"That was incredibly reckless of me..." John decided with amused despair. "Sherlock - my balls are as dry as the Sahara. Have mercy."

 

Sherlock shoved his lower lip forward in a pout, but then sighed in resignation.

 

"Fine … I'll just have to wait until tomorrow morning." He rolled away from John and started to get up.

 

John caught him by the arm and held him back. "Where are you going?"

 

"To my bed, where else?" Sherlock answered, shrugging.

 

"Stay," John heard himself say. He felt the brief hesitation, but then the muscles under his hand relaxed, the mattress beside him dipped, and a cover was spread over him. John was just able to register a warm body snuggling gingerly up against him before his eyes fell shut for good, and he was asleep.

 

Sherlock, on the other hand, lay awake for quite some time. Still on a high from John's sperm, the bitter yet somehow sweet taste on his tongue - it reminded him of fresh oysters before they'd been dosed with lemon, Worcestershire sauce, or anything else. His senses were saturated with John's familiar, calming - yet still exciting - smell, still filled with John's sighs and moans, his touches and looks, and Sherlock understood at that moment that an exorbitant performance like tonight wouldn't be necessary again. Although it had been wonderful to give free rein to his desires - to his addiction - it had given him a buzz of another sort altogether. It was no longer necessary for him to drown in an ocean of semen. It was no longer necessary for him to forget himself. It was … simply no longer necessary. He didn't need it anymore. What he needed was... John.

 

With that realisation, he tried to process the day's events, to correlate them, to make sense of them. But he failed miserably.

 

Pensive and wondering, he listened to John breathing, felt the rustling of the expensive Egyptian cotton sheets on his naked skin, and was hardly able to comprehend his luck.

 

Up to this point, he had never been allowed to spend an entire night in John's bed. There had always been a pat on the bottom at some point to send him on his way. Sherlock had always accepted it without complaint.

 

Maybe he'd ended up swallowing down a couple of tears once he was in his own bed … maybe he'd even cried himself to sleep one time - but now?

 

 _"Stay,"_ John had said, and promptly fallen asleep.

 

_"Stay..."_

 

"Forever … if you want …" Sherlock entrusted his whispered words to the night, closed his eyes, and snugged himself carefully up against John's slumbering body, making sure not to wake him by mistake.

 

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

The first faint hint of dawn lent a gentle, red glow to John's bedroom and conjured a pattern of stripes on the floor, walls, and bed where it filtered through the blinds.

 

John was still asleep, but Sherlock had been awake for a while. He lay on his side, his head propped up on one hand, and watched John. In this light, with his face relaxed in sleep, John looked ten years younger. What had John's life been like back then, ten years ago? Had he lived with someone? What position had he held within the mob? Had he worked his way up within the _family_? From the _foot soldier_ who took care of the dirty jobs including breaking bones and smashing furniture? Based on some of the remarks he'd made in Sherlock's presence, it was a probable conclusion.

 

Sherlock didn't regret John's decisions. After all, they'd led to them meeting. He also didn't feel any pity for him. John lived on the edge of society, in a grey area, a criminal in the eyes of the police … but he'd chosen that life for himself, and - considering the scar on his shoulder - he'd worked hard for it and fought to defend his position. This was how he wanted it. Pity had no place here.

 

John's eyelids fluttered. Sherlock took the opportunity to run his hand briefly over the scar on John's shoulder. John had allowed the touch there yesterday - had even enjoyed it, to all appearances - but that was no guarantee that he'd allow it again today.

 

John awoke with a quiet sigh, stretched and opened his eyes, blinking slowly.

 

"Good morning," Sherlock whispered, ghosting a brief, dry kiss across John's lips.

 

"You're still here," John murmured, still half asleep, rubbing his eyes with one hand.

 

"You said, _'Stay'_ \- so I stayed," Sherlock replied. "Where else should I be?"

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_**To be continued...** _

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

**PIC-Set!!!**

 

[ **http://lorelei-lee.tumblr.com/post/122088855504/teaser-for-chapter-21-of-deflowered-directors** ](http://lorelei-lee.tumblr.com/post/122088855504/teaser-for-chapter-21-of-deflowered-directors)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	22. Progress and Setbacks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation by the amazing SwissMiss!!!!

 

**Chapter 22: Progress and Setbacks**

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

By the time a few days had passed after John surprised Sherlock in his office, Mike had become used to Sherlock's presence. The kid really had a good head on his shoulders, and working with him was surprisingly pleasant. Like John, he didn't put much stock in flowery speeches when it came to business, and his assistance proved to be more than valuable. They agreed that Sherlock would go through and check over the invoices from every division and region, while Mike and John took care of the day-to-day business.

 

Sherlock had occupied the chair behind John's desk with an unparalleled chutzpah - never mind asking for permission or even waiting for a simple nod of the head.

 

Mike had taken note of it wordlessly, albeit with one eyebrow raised, giving John a look that spoke volumes, yet John hadn't reacted at all and let Sherlock have his way.

 

On this particular day, Mike was sitting in his usual spot on the leather couch, going through account statements and payslips. John usually sat on one of the armchairs - since Sherlock had taken his chair - or paced restlessly up and down the room. That was the case today as well. Sherlock was engrossed in the invoices and was almost entirely hidden behind the mountains of binders and papers that towered over him on the desk, while John prowled back and forth in front of the windows.

 

"I shouldn't have sent Maynard after Graves," John said for the umpteenth time. "I should have taken care of it myself."

 

"And what would possibly have gone differently?" Mike asked in a bored tone of voice without looking up. They'd had the same conversation once too many times since yesterday.

 

John ground his teeth, audible even at that distance.

 

"I would have been smart enough to shoot him in the leg when he tried to run, not shot him in the back and right through his heart."

 

Mike snorted. "There's no sense crying over spilt milk... even if you'd wanted to, I'd never have let you go. Not so close to the mayoral election. Your name mixed up with a murder … we can't afford a scandal like that right now."

 

The footsteps halted. John had stopped. Mike looked up.

 

"Is there at least anything new about the number we found on that bastard Graves?" It was clear how difficult it was for John to control his temper.

 

"No, not..." Mike began, just as his mobile rang. "Ah - right on cue. We'll know more in a moment." He accepted the call and said, "Any news, Rosebank?"

 

While Sherlock continued to work, unperturbed - he was probably concentrating so hard on the columns of numbers that he wasn't aware of anything else - John bounced impatiently on the balls of his feet, clenching his hands behind his back to stop himself from tearing the phone out of Mike's hand so he could talk to the informant himself. Given his current state of mind, it was definitely better to leave the conversation to Mike.

 

"Ah, yeah - all right. Fine, it's not much - but thanks for trying." Mike pushed a button to end the call.

 

"Well?" John blurted out.

 

"The number wasn't registered … prepaid card … but when you call, there's a recording and you can leave a message," Mike reported in a pensive tone.

 

John's eyes narrowed. "A recording? But then..."

 

Mike shook his head in regret. "It's just someone saying, _'Hi, you're speaking with Jim.'_ And then it beeps and that's it."

 

"Jim? I don't know any..." John's forehead wrinkled in thought. "No," he said slowly after a bit. "I don't know anyone named _Jim_."

 

"Rosebank promised he'd stay on it," Mike said, shrugging. "There's nothing more we can do at the moment."

 

"Jim..." John fretted. "Anything … Ha! I have it!" he cried. "Didn't they find an envelope in Bayswater Road with _J.M._ written on the back, like a return address?"

 

Now it was Mike's turn to frown. "You mean after the Schultz brothers left that slaughterhouse scene behind on your instructions? Yeah... could be. I think that's right," he replied a little uncertainly. "But do you really think there's a connection?" he asked, his scepticism clear. "It seems a bit far-fetched."

 

"I don't know," John admitted. "But something's going on."

 

There was a knock at the door, and Jacques entered with a tray on which he was balancing three coffee cups and a coffee pot, seemingly with no effort whatsoever.

 

"Ah, the coffee - thank you, Jacques. Put my cup there on the table and go ahead and pour." John glanced around, but Sherlock was still focused on his task. "I think Sherlock will take his coffee at the desk."

 

The butler served the coffee on the coffee table, handing Mike his cup, then filled the other two cups with the caffeinated elixir.

 

Mike reached greedily for the almond biscuit on his saucer and stuffed it into his mouth before taking the first sip of his coffee, sighing contentedly. It had been a while since they'd had coffee together. They hadn't worked such long hours recently that they'd needed coffee to stay awake, or else they'd been out of the house. Mike eyed the biscuit on John's saucer with a covetous eye (Jacques was remarkably stingy with those biscuits), and then he noticed: the cup that Jacques brought to Sherlock didn't have a biscuit with it.

 

Mike stared, not quite knowing what to make of it.

 

He watched as Sherlock looked up briefly, accepted the cup with a nod and - just as Mike had done moments ago - drank the first sip with obvious enjoyment.

 

John wandered over to the seating arrangement, took a bite of his biscuit, and washed it down with some coffee.

 

Did John know … or had he even given specific instructions...

 

Mike shook his head and decided not to get involved in something that didn't concern him. It was possible Sherlock was allergic to something … nuts or lactose or gluten or whatever the stuff was called. Just like it didn't concern him one bit whatever John had done to Sherlock that time when he'd returned to the office in John's wake with red eyes and scarlet cheeks but grinning like a Cheshire cat, after being caught entering the office without permission.

 

It was none of his business. None at all.

 

But what was his business were the salary payments.

 

He set down his cup decisively. "Sherlock's not being paid," he announced out of the blue. "I think he should be paid."

 

"Paid?" John repeated, nonplussed.

 

Unexpectedly, Sherlock spoke up: "I don't want to be paid.”

 

"See," John said to Mike. "He doesn't want to be paid. Why should he be?"

 

"Why? Because he..." Mike was struck dumb for a moment. "Because he's doing as much work as an accountant," he explained firmly. "It's only fair he be paid for it."

 

All that John said was, "Aha," but it was clear that Mike's words had given him something to think about.

 

Mike stood up and went to John, who gave him a look that was both expectant and a little bit puzzled.

 

"John - I've seen your bank statements," Mike said to him in a low voice, as he didn't want Sherlock to hear everything. "You haven't spent any money on him at all. Aside from the clothes you had your tailor make for him … nothing." Mike fixed his gaze on John's. "That's not right."

 

A lopsided grin played around the corners of John's mouth. "I thought you'd be happy he's not trying to fleece me like an Angora sweater. Your words!"

 

"This is different," Mike set him straight. "He's doing work. Being useful. And not just a bit. At least pay him a little something."

 

"No, thank you," Sherlock insisted. "I don't need anything."

 

John shrugged and sent Mike an eloquent look. "What can I do?"

 

"You're both going to drive me mad," Mike complained and sat back down. He drank the rest of his coffee, feeling somewhat out of sorts. Then he had another idea. "We could fix it another way. Put Sherlock's name on a savings account or something, and I'll put a little money in every month. I'd hold onto the passbook as long as he's here, and when he leaves, he'll at least have a little nest egg to get him started again."

 

A resounding silence filled the room.

 

Perplexed and a little uncertain, Mike blinked back and forth from John to Sherlock.

 

John's face looked like it was carved out of stone. His jaw muscles bulged and he looked extremely displeased.

 

Mike had no idea what was going on.

 

Sherlock, on the other hand, sat as still as a statue. Perhaps a bit pale, but with a completely calm expression. He didn't look at Mike, but rather at John, who in turn only glanced at him quickly before trying to stare Mike right through the floor. Following John's brief look, Sherlock lowered his head again over his papers and kept working.

 

"Sherlock..." John said without taking his eyes off of Mike. "Please go to the kitchen and let them know we'll eat in an hour."

 

"Yes, John," Sherlock said right away, as he always did when John told him to do something. Mike knew that by now. Sherlock put his pen down and stood up with nothing more than an inquisitive look flashing briefly over his face. John - as Mike knew all too well - usually rang for his house staff when he wanted something. He never sent anyone to the kitchen to let them know what he wanted. Mike frowned. That could only mean that John wanted Sherlock out of the way for the time being. But the reason for that was a mystery to Mike. Ever since Sherlock started working with them, there were hardly any secrets anymore. At least none that had to do with business.

 

"And when you've done that, go take a bath. I won't need you here anymore this evening," John added to his instructions.

 

Sherlock gave him a mildly puzzled look, but said nothing and left the office.

 

As soon as the door closed behind him, John set his cup down on the coffee table with a loud clatter.

 

"Do you even listen to yourself?!" John roared at his friend, furious. "What kind of a harebrained idea was that? A passbook? Could you not think of anything more idiotic?"

 

"What are you talking about, John?" Mike returned at the same volume. "You know how much I love to get yelled at by you, but not unprovoked! Not without a reason! I only meant well after you stood there and acted like a … like a … plantation owner."

 

"Plantation owner?" John ranted. "Can you not think of a more ludicrous comparison?"

 

"No," Mike admitted, and a reluctant laugh escaped John's mouth, which was still clenched together in anger. "Why are you so upset?"

 

"You don't get it," John said, shaking his head. "You just don't get it... Do you know what your crackpot suggestion sounded like? As if Sherlock had to work for his own severance package!"

 

"So?" Mike asked, still not comprehending.

 

"So?!" John echoed in dismay. "First of all - if it does end, I'm going to be extremely generous! And second - your idiotic suggestion hurt Sherlock's feelings and I won't stand for that!"

 

"Hurt his feelings?" Mike retorted loudly. "Hurt his feelings?! The tosser didn't bat an eyelash. How do you know it _hurt_ his _feelings_?"

 

"It was obvious!" John hissed.

 

"Obvious?" Mike repeated in a mocking tone of voice. "You barely glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. How could you tell?!"

 

"I just could!" John yelled before saying in exasperation, "I have to get out of here."

 

John practically ran to the door, tore it open, stormed out, and slammed it loudly behind him. He stood in the entry hall, breathing heavily, only to see Sherlock at the foot of the stairs.

 

Sherlock. Pale, tense, hurt. John's heart clenched.

 

"You heard everything?" he asked softly. He wanted to go to Sherlock, but he didn't. A strange shyness had come over him.

 

Sherlock nodded, silent.

 

"I didn't want that," John said, although it wasn't clear what exactly he was referring to. He wasn't even sure himself. The urge to put his arms around Sherlock was quickly becoming overwhelming.

 

When Sherlock finally spoke, his voice seemed to come from far away.

 

"He's your friend. You shouldn't row with him on my account."

 

"What am I supposed to do now? Apologise to him?" John asked. When Sherlock didn't answer, he said half to himself, "Maybe it'd be better. Have you already been to the kitchen?" John asked abruptly. When Sherlock shook his head, he went on, "Fine, I'll take care of it. You go on up and run the bath. In my bathroom - the tub is bigger. I'll be right up."

 

"All right," Sherlock said - a bit puzzled, a bit wistful, and a bit lost - and started up the stairs following a brief hesitation. It was all so clear to read in his face that John couldn't understand how Mike hadn't seen it.

 

John's eyes followed the trim figure, and he was filled with one single thought - more intense and desperate than he'd ever experienced before: _I don't want this to end._

 

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

When John had taken care of everything and was finally sitting in the bathtub with Sherlock, it was almost like the time they'd bathed together at Irene Adler's brothel - aside from the bathing salts and bubble bath Sherlock had added in copious amounts this time. They sat in the same position, with an entire ocean full of unspoken questions and answers floating between them.

 

"Sherlock … if you … in case you..." The words got stuck in John's throat. "I mean, if you want to leave, then..."

 

"I don't want to leave," the reply came back quickly, yet so softly that John had to prick his ears to hear it. "But … if you want me to leave, then..." Sherlock went on despondently.

 

"I don't want you to leave." John's heart was beating in his throat. Was it really that easy to say the words? So simple? Why hadn't he said them earlier? Much, much earlier?

 

"Good," Sherlock said after what seemed like an eternity of silence. His voice sounded thick, as if he were fighting off tears.

 

John wrapped his arms around him, ghosted a kiss over his damp, unruly curls, and held him tight. Very tight. And Sherlock nestled against him with a sigh.

 

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_Charles Henford has the honour of announcing the engagement of_

_his daughter Clarissa to Francesco Amalfi._

 

The text was printed in golden letters on the invitation that had procured John entry to Mr Henford's villa that evening. He usually stayed away from events like this, but the mayoral elections had taken place that day, and Mr Henford had been clever enough to hold his daughter's engagement party that very evening in order to ensure the mob would show up.

 

Mr Henford had been a successful, respectable businessman up to now … at least as respectable as a businessman could be in this day and age. But then _his_ lobbyists and _his_ political representative had abandoned him, and he'd been quite pleased about his future son-in-law's connections to the mob.

 

John wasn't entirely unhappy about the fact that all of the top-ranked mobsters were gathered here on neutral ground to follow the election returns and projections on the television in one of the lounges. If it hadn't been for this engagement, he would have had to invite them all to his house for a similar party … with free drinks and the BBC on the widescreen. He'd been spared that fate thanks to the enchanting Clarissa and the man who was head over heels for her, Francesco.

 

The usual suspects had assembled for the event … businesspeople whose hands weren't entirely clean, up-and-coming politicians who coyly admitted they wouldn't be above a discreet bribe here and there, starlets of the big and small screens, and the tabloid celebrities who always showed up when there was free alcohol - and who secretly found the mob rather sexy. Luckily, several glowering bodyguards made sure that those guests and their entourages and spouses stayed away from the lounge where the election coverage was running. The mob was therefore more or less on their own.

 

The first projections predicted the result John wanted, and he relaxed a little. Beside him, Mike sipped at his second drink, and all of a sudden, John wished Sherlock were there with him instead. He could tell him who all the people were, explain the complex interconnections, badmouth some of the other guests … yes, that would be fun. For Sherlock too. John would take him around, show him off a bit, and introduce him to the other guests. _‘Good evening... have you met Sherlock Sigerson? He's my...’_ John's daydream stuttered at that point. As what would he introduce Sherlock? His bedwarmer or his bookkeeper? The truth lay somewhere in between. _‘Sherlock Sigerson, my partner.’_ Hold on. Where had that come from? Annoyed at himself, John frowned and stared angrily at the martini in his hand.

 

"What bee crawled into your bonnet this time?" Mike asked. "Everything's going great!"

 

"It's just this drink. I don't actually like martinis," John answered evasively.

 

"You could have taken something else. There was more than enough selection on the tray that rather fit waiter passed around," Mike stated matter-of-factly.

 

John snorted in contempt. "If you think I'd be caught dead with a Pink Lady..."

 

"You could have taken a Black Velvet."

 

"Serving Black Velvets at a party like this... daft. Completely daft. A mourning drink at an engagement party." John shook his head.

 

It would turn out later that Mr Henford had displayed a gift for the prophetic with his decision to serve Black Velvets. John, at least, had sufficient reason to mourn by the end of the evening. But no one could know - or even suspect - that at this point.

 

"Good God," Mike groaned, irritated. "Then order something else - look, the waiter's zipping over this way again." He signalled, and the waiter adjusted his course toward them.

 

"What can I bring you gentlemen?" he asked politely.

 

Mike waved off the question, but John put his martini back on the tray and said, "Orange juice." The waiter nodded and disappeared again.

 

"Juice?" Mike asked. "Since when do you drink juice?"

 

"Since..." _Sherlock found out that juice could affect the taste of semen and was obsessed with all kinds of experiments..._ he completed the sentence to himself. But he didn't want to burden Mike with that answer. "For a while now," he said instead. "But I'm more interested in knowing... since when have you had an opinion on the _fitness_ of waiters?" he probed, his voice tinged with suspicion.

 

"I thought you'd never ask!" Mike remarked dryly. "That waiter's checked out your arse twice now."

 

"So?"

 

"I thought you might be interested."

 

"Why should I be?"

 

Mike sighed. "Fine - so he's not your type. How about Lord Henry's secretary then? The cute strawberry-blond one from before..."

 

"Mike, what's going on?" John interrupted him curtly. "Are you seriously trying to hook me up here?"

 

"It was worth a try," Mike said, slightly insulted. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

 

"Like what?"

 

"Like I've lost my marbles," Mike clarified.

 

"Then I got it spot on," John said in a low voice. "That's exactly what I meant it to look like. What are you thinking? Am I supposed to take Lord Henry's secretary home with me and pound him with Sherlock a couple of doors down... Have you gone mad?"

 

Mike tilted his head thoughtfully from one side to the other. "I'm sure there are a couple of empty rooms here that would serve for a quickie..."

 

"Mike, which part of ' _Sherlock is waiting at home for me'_ did you not understand?" John asked, his voice as sweet as honey. "Do you really think I'd... with one of these... waiters..."

 

"What? What exactly are you saying, John?"

 

"Oh, leave me alone!"

 

"You were going to say ' _cheat on him_ '. Weren't you? John?"

 

"Piss off," John hissed.

 

"Cheating! So that’s how it is. You'd feel like you were _cheating_ and probably even feel guilty just for..."

 

"Mike … for the sake of our friendship: Not one - more - word."

 

"Fine," Mike acquiesced. "But just one more thing - John... this thing with Sherlock isn't forever. There's something wrong with the guy... I can feel it. He's going to leave sometime. And what happens then?"

 

 _'It'll break my heart,'_ John thought immediately. Wait. Stop. Hold on. He didn't have a heart. At least not since back when Victor had ripped it out and spit on it.

 

"What about that one over there?" John asked in order to distract Mike from the fact that he wasn't answering his question. "Why don't you want to set me up with him?"

 

He nodded at a tall, blond man in his thirties. He presented quite the picture. But his chin was a little too angular and his eyes a little too deepset to really be deemed attractive.

 

Mike glared at his friend. "Not funny, John. Not funny."

 

"A matter of perspective," John said with a grin and a shrug. "So - who is the chap?"

 

"That's Moran. Sebastian Moran," Mike answered. "Our new golden boy from Edinburgh."

 

John mustered Moran with renewed interest. "Oh yeah - I know him. We used him in Southwark already. Albright took him under his wing. How's he doing?"

 

"Well," Mike replied, a bit sourly. "Too well."

 

"You don't like him," John noted observantly. "Why?"

 

"You'll be the first to know when I figure it out," Mike said, his forehead creasing. "I don't think he's as brilliant and clever as he wants people to believe. I'm going to go out on a limb and venture to say he's just a strawman, and that all the ideas and plans for Edinburgh actually come from someone else."

 

"Someone who lets the strawman reap all the glory without a peep?" John asked, nonplussed.

 

"That's what bugs me about it," Mike agreed grimly. "There's something foul about the whole thing. I have the feeling he'd rather get his hands on another district. He's been seen chatting with our boys in Lambeth a couple of times. But don't worry. I'll keep my eyes and ears open."

 

"What would I do without you," John murmured earnestly, patting Mike on the shoulder. "But maybe he's just ambitious... we weren't so different back in the day," he pointed out.

 

Mike scoffed a bit, but then pointed at the television screen.

 

"The newest projections. Still looks good."

 

John tapped his toe nervously against the gleaming parquet floor, making sure no one saw him. Displaying a weakness in a room full of mobsters could be fatal to a man in his position.

 

"Yeah, it's starting to get close." The waiter finally returned with his orange juice. John took it and sipped at it in order to keep himself occupied. "Dammit, Mike," he whispered at his friend. "It's got to go off. If it doesn't go off, then..."

 

"You can be a right drama queen, you know that?" Mike retorted. "Relax! It'll be fine. After all, I took care of it personally."

 

But thirty minutes later it was clear to everyone present that it hadn't worked.

 

Another candidate caught up, and when the first returns from the districts of Lambeth & Southwark and Brent & Harrow came in, it was clear that the projections were wrong. A half hour later it was as good as decided that the new mayor wasn't the candidate the mob had backed, but someone bearing the name of Mycroft Holmes.

 

An awkward silence filled the room, broken only by the continued blare of the television. After a shock-filled moment, all eyes turned to John as if on cue.

 

And what did John do?

 

John laughed.

 

It was a desperate attempt to save whatever could still be saved.

 

"Bad luck," he called out carelessly and emptied his glass. Then he signalled to the waiter. "Black Velvets for everyone! It's not exactly a happy occasion, but that doesn't mean we have to go thirsty, does it?" A quiet murmur of agreement sounded. "All right, so this Holmes won. So what?" John laughed again, but this time he let a touch of ice sound in his laughter. "He'll see what he's in for. We'll just let him get nice and cosy in his new office first."

 

"And then? What happens when he's nice and cosy?" Albright called out in challenge.

 

John smiled, baring his teeth. "Then? Then I'll be paying him a little visit that he won't get over so fast. And after that... we'll see who's really in charge here in London!" He directed his icy gaze at each and every one of those present. "Anyone else have something to say?" he shouted in a hard, cutting voice.

 

John waited a moment, but when no one else spoke up, he turned on his heel, said to Mike, "Mike, we're leaving!" threw his glass with all his might into the empty fireplace, where it shattered with a loud crash, and then left the lounge with deliberately slow steps, making a point of turning his back on all of the other guests.

 

It wasn't until he and Mike were sitting in the back seat of his car, being driven home by Bridges, that John noticed the cold sweat on his forehead.

 

"Well done," Mike murmured.

 

The rest of the journey through the rainy night passed in silence.

 

Frustration gnawed at John, dug into his gut and fed his aggression and anger until he didn't know who to direct it at. The worst part was that deep-seated sense of failure and wretched helplessness - because there was nothing, absolutely nothing he could do tonight to change the defeat into a victory.

 

Having to swallow the humiliation in front of the assembled team was like a slap in the face and was an experience he could really have quite happily done without. Not even Mike's well meaning encouragement could help.

 

It was a good thing John didn't have a weapon on him at the moment, as his mood continued to deteriorate from one second to the next, until he wouldn't have guaranteed for anyone's safety. As it was, he tamped down his negative emotions as well as he could and ground his teeth until Bridges dropped him off at home before continuing to Mike's house, which was further on.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

John opened the door to his bedroom with more force than necessary, only to find Sherlock sitting on his bed, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles.

 

Sherlock. How could he have forgotten?

 

They'd agreed that Sherlock should wait for him … John had been thinking of a small, private victory celebration. But that idea had been shot to hell with this whole debacle. He was pissed off and full of pent-up aggression. Not exactly ideal conditions for … whatever he'd wanted to do with Sherlock.

 

Sherlock was wearing his new dressing gown. It fell loosely open, so wide that John had no trouble ascertaining that he was naked underneath. Something stirred in John at the sight and he licked his upper lip. But then he shook his head firmly.

 

Sherlock had looked up with a small, pleased - yet inquiring - smile when he came in, laying aside the papers he'd been reading.

 

"You're back already," he noted.

 

"As you can see," John retorted, irritated. "Get out."

 

Sherlock's forehead creased. "But... what... I didn't do anything!" he cried in his defence. "And if you don't like what I did with the Italian correspondence..."

 

"Sherlock!" John cut him off. "Go - to - your - room."

 

"No," Sherlock said stubbornly, crossing his arms over his chest. "Why should I?"

 

John blinked up at the ceiling as if seeking succour, but found no answer there either.

 

"Why do you never do what I tell you?" John cried in aggravation.

 

Sherlock gave him a long look. "That question could occupy an army of psychologists for years." His forehead creased again for a moment before smoothing out again. "But here's the short version: because that's not what either of us wants."

 

John was shocked into silence. In a rare moment of clarity - at least, it was rare when he was as angry as he was at the moment - he realised that Sherlock had hit the nail on the head. Unconditional obedience wasn't what John - or Sherlock - wanted … it wasn't what either of them needed. Sherlock needed someone to set limits for him; he needed someone to allow him to question those limits, feel them out and even overstep them. Sherlock needed someone to correct him … over and over again. Someone who not only recognised his intelligence, but admired and encouraged it. Someone who didn't see the disobedience in Sherlock, but the challenge.

 

John loved challenges. He virtually lusted after situations that needed to be brought under control. John loved the feeling of power that control gave him; he loved the struggle that was sometimes necessary, and he loved the temporary submission. There was an allure to finding the right path to take in order to force his will on another human being. John didn't want blind obedience; he didn't want perfection or flawlessness - that would bore him to death, and quickly. He wanted the questions and the rebellion, he wanted the fascination and the surprise; he wanted the fight.

 

And all of a sudden, John realised that although Sherlock might be far from perfect, it was those very flaws that made him so ideal.

 

Where was the fun in forcing a yes-man, a bootlicker, or a brown-noser to his knees? But to wrestle someone like Sherlock to the floor … Sherlock, who was headstrong and presented a challenge, not just on a sexual level but on an intellectual one as well - that was much more interesting and exciting.

 

The knowledge that Sherlock was his physical equal or even superior was an additional source of titillation. Sherlock's submission didn't come easily. But when it came, then John always knew it was voluntary and whole-hearted. Sherlock was never a victim - never a loser. Rather, he was someone who could also enjoy a defeat - and therefore never truly experienced it as a defeat. He probably just chalked it up as a new experience.

 

A little dazed by these insights, John stood there and watched Sherlock lift up the pillow beside him. Underneath were some instruments Sherlock must have placed there after taking them out of the special compartment in John's walk-in closet. John recognised the riding crop and the red leather flogger, as well as one of his ropes and a couple of small metallic objects - probably nipple clamps. He owned several. After giving John one final, searching once-over, Sherlock made his choice. He stood up, walked over to John, and held out the short, broad leather paddle with the silver studs along the edge.

 

John took the paddle a little numbly. Out of habit, he hefted it in his hand, felt how nicely the weight was balanced between the flat end of the paddle and the handle.

 

"I presume the elections didn't exactly go in your favour. Therefore … help yourself," Sherlock said with a peculiar kind of smile.

 

"Sherlock," John said gruffly, moistening his suddenly dry lips with his tongue. "You don't know what you're saying."

 

"Of course I do," Sherlock said lightly. "Let it out on me. You'll feel better afterwards."

 

John stared down at the hand holding the leather paddle as if seeing it for the first time. The implement was perfect for what Sherlock was suggesting. It felt good in his hand and wasn't very flexible, so it would be easy to land a hit even if it were used with less than complete concentration. The sound it made striking skin was gratifyingly loud - as John knew from experience - without causing all too much pain. It took quite a bit of strength to handle - at least when the paddle was used over a longer period of time. John would be able to hit as hard as he wanted without actually hurting Sherlock. He'd be able to give it his all - without a guilty conscience - and work off all of the pent-up adrenaline. It was a bloody seductive thought and so completely messed up that John didn't know how to make Sherlock understand.

 

"Sherlock … I can't."

 

"Oh please, John," Sherlock retorted in that faintly condescending manner he employed from time to time. "Don't be so horribly bourgeois."

 

"This has nothing to do with being bourgeois!" John huffed and automatically wrapped his hand more firmly around the handle of the paddle, which Sherlock noted with a gleam in his eye. "It has to do with the fact that you didn't do anything wrong … you … you... I _can't_ hit you just because..." John shook his head.

 

"With due respect to your political correctness..." Sherlock interjected, rolling his eyes, "...it's completely lost on me. You should know that by now. Do I really need to give you a reason first?" He shook his head in disapproval. "Good God, John - sometimes you're really terribly difficult. Hit me. Just hit me. You know it's not a punishment for me. Especially not with that." He indicated the paddle in John's hand. "Don't worry. We both know you'll feel better for it afterwards. And so will I. You want to. I can read it in your eyes. Or do you really need to justify the act? Really, John?" Sherlock's left eyebrow rose in challenge.

 

"All right, fine," John growled, having bid good-bye to his self-control following that speech. "You asked for it. But don't say I didn't warn you!" ' _And now let's see if we can't change that smirk into something else,'_ John thought to himself, licking his lips in anticipation.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Perspiration gleamed on Sherlock's back. John whaled away tirelessly at the proffered arse with the leather paddle. At first John had told him to kneel a short distance away from the bed, his legs together and supporting himself with his hands on the edge of the bed. Sherlock had maintained the position the entire time with remarkable docility. The paddle left wide, red marks on the pale skin, which gave John a decided sense of satisfaction to see. He didn't know how long he'd been beating Sherlock, but he felt the strain in his arm now and paused for a moment to catch his breath. His tension and anger had receded a bit already, and he had the feeling that he could breathe easier.

 

But it wasn't enough. Not nearly. There was still as much adrenaline in his blood as in an entire rugby team right after they lost a match. John took a deep breath then went over to stand next to Sherlock, grabbed him by the hair, yanked him into an upright position and bent his head back.

 

Sherlock gasped for breath and lost his balance, flailing out with one hand for John's leg in order to stabilise himself. John allowed it without berating him, as his attention was currently absorbed by something else altogether.

 

A stiff, wetly gleaming erection was jutting out from where Sherlock legs were still pressed together.

 

"Horny sod," John murmured, but it sounded more approving than scolding or upset.

 

"I should have asked for the sperm stopper," Sherlock remarked, his gaze burning into John.

 

"That wouldn't have done any good. It would only have made you randier," John countered before giving Sherlock's swollen shaft a light swat with the paddle. Sherlock whimpered with lust, leaning away from the hand in his hair. Another pale drop oozed out of the end of his penis. "A little ball like that doesn't have any effect on you anymore. You need more."

 

"More?" Sherlock asked breathlessly.

 

"Ever heard of a prince's wand?" John wanted to know. Sherlock shook his head as well as he could. "No? The term ' _penis_ _plug_ ' must say something to you though."

 

"Oh, God..." Sherlock moaned softly. His erection twitched, and another drop of pre-ejaculate fluid formed in the narrow slit of his glans.

 

John licked his lips.

 

"But I may have to haul out the heavy artillery in your case... I still have a set of sounds somewhere..." A lust-filled throbbing arose in John's groin, and his penis started to expand. God - it had been a long time since he'd used that set. There were simply too few men who found the practice titillating. "Metal rods, intended for medical use … with a slight bend in them … in several sizes..." John continued, his voice raw. "Perfect for inserting into the urethra … Maybe it would teach you not to dribble all over everything. How would you like that?"

 

Sherlock stared at him, open-mouthed. His pupils were blown open so far that his normally pale eyes appeared almost black. The clear fluid now ran uninterrupted over the head of his penis.

 

"God... yes..." Sherlock's reply was barely more than a throaty rattle.

 

A mischievous and self-satisfied grin appeared on John's lips.

 

"That's what I thought," he said, taunting, and spanked Sherlock's erection lightly with the paddle again, causing it to bend slightly from the impact. "But you're going to have to control yourself without those things today."

 

A long, drawn-out moan emanated from Sherlock's mouth.

 

"John... please..." The hand he'd been holding onto John with slid jerkily between John's legs. "Fuck me... touch me … anything … please... let me come..."

 

John chuckled, and Sherlock shuddered in anticipation.

 

"You'd like that," John mocked him, pushing even closer to Sherlock's seeking hand with a sigh of pleasure. The familiar power rush flowed through him and made his half-hard cock swell even more. "To just be allowed to come all over, hm?"

 

Sherlock bit down on his lower lip and whispered hopefully after a few seconds, "Please?"

 

"No." John shook his head, unmoved. Sherlock's quiet ' _please_ ' had an incredibly stimulating effect on him. He knew how much Sherlock hated asking for something. If he resorted to begging of his own free will, without being prompted, he must be in a very bad way. John's pulse rate went up another notch.

 

"But you can give yourself a bit of relief," he allowed generously, gracing Sherlock with his broadest grin. "You have permission to rub two fingers over the head of your cock." He loosened his grip on Sherlock's hair in order to give him an encouraging pat on the cheek. "Go on - what are you waiting for?"

 

Sherlock stared at him in disbelief. "You can't be serious!" he blurted out.

 

John's smile became fiendish. "Oh, keep on like that and I'll only allow you one finger," he remarked casually. "Up to you."

 

Sherlock looked down at his hard cock, undecided, then back at John, who just stood there waiting. With a faint sigh, Sherlock bowed his head, inserted his index and middle fingers between his lips, gave them a quick suck, pulled them out again and gave them one last lick with his tongue.

 

"I'd say you're wet enough," John said in a dry, mocking tone. "But go ahead, it's up to you. And now get started before I change my mind."

 

The last, pleading look from Sherlock did nothing to shake his resolve; it did, however, cause a thrilling throbbing in his dick. Sherlock took a shaky breath and then rubbed his fingers over his wet, gleaming glans. His body convulsed inward, accompanied by a hoarse moan.

 

John watched with satisfaction, letting Sherlock continue for a few minutes. Then, without warning, he slapped his arse hard with the paddle. Sherlock flinched and cried out sharply, rubbing his fingers over the head even faster.

 

"Left hand on the edge of the bed. Same position as before," John ordered with a bite to his voice.

 

"John..." Sherlock whined softly. "Please... let me … I … I can't..."

 

"Oh yes, you can," John replied impassively. "Come on... assume the position. Did you really think I was finished with your arse?"

 

Sherlock groaned in distress, but leaned his body forward toward the bed and held himself up with his left hand as before, even as his right hand disappeared between his legs. John reared back and smacked him. Sherlock whimpered, but lifted his arse a bit more to present it for the next hit.

 

"Insatiable," John scolded him, shaking his head in amusement. "Do you think you can come like this?"

 

"I hope so," Sherlock panted, glancing at John over his shoulder with an impatient spark in his eye. "What's wrong? Go on!"

 

The additional stimulation of John's blows wasn't enough to bring Sherlock to climax, however… which might have something to do with the fact that John was deliberately hitting him with less force than before. He didn't want to make things any easier for Sherlock. When Sherlock's entire body was finally trembling with unfulfilled desire, John tossed the paddle aside, helped Sherlock get up and shuffled him onto the bed.

 

John took his clothes off, pumped his own stiff cock a few times, and then settled himself on a pillow behind Sherlock and wrapped his arms around his upper body. He looked with lust-filled, greedy eyes at Sherlock's hard, pulsating erection - still waiting for satisfaction - and sucked an open-mouthed kiss onto the alluring, white curve of the neck in front of him.

 

Sherlock shuddered, and his penis jerked. "Please..." he begged, his voice choked. "John... _please_... let me..."

 

"Put your left hand on it … but just hold it - no wanking," John warned him. "Good. And now... you can continue … two fingers only."

 

" _Joooooohhhhnnnn_ ," Sherlock whined.

 

"You'll come like this or not at all. Got it?" John repeated sternly.

 

A soft sob sounded, but then Sherlock resumed the stimulation - which had to be more torment than pleasure at this point … enough to maintain or even increase his level of arousal, but never enough to achieve real satisfaction. John was well aware of that. Having control over Sherlock's orgasm made his whole body tingle and gave him a buzz unlike anything else. It gave John a very necessary counterpoint to the fucked up situation with the lost election. A situation he'd lost all control over. And here Sherlock was, giving him - completely of his own volition - a way of compensating that loss of control by giving him something else to exert his influence over … Sherlock's body and Sherlock's arousal. It was a heady feeling.

 

John felt the telltale twitching and tensing of muscles in the body he held in his arms and called out, "Stop!" When Sherlock didn't immediately respond, John grabbed his wrist and yanked his fingers away from his swollen penis.

 

"No..." Sherlock sobbed in desperation. "John... _please_... I was _soooo_ close..."

 

"I know," John said calmly, grinning fiendishly even though Sherlock couldn't see it. His own penis pressed and rubbed against Sherlock's back. He waited a few seconds, listening to Sherlock's laboured breathing, then released his hand. "Go on."

 

"Oh God," Sherlock whispered, but immediately resumed rubbing the head of his penis, concentrating the almost frantic motions exclusively on the tiny opening. His hips started to jerk in an unambiguous manner, and John once again took hold of his fingers and pulled them away.

 

"Everything all right?" John murmured softly when Sherlock didn't make any more sounds. Sherlock nodded, and John ghosted a kiss over his sweaty temple, whispering, "You're doing brilliantly... just a couple more..."

 

Sherlock groaned and pushed back even closer against John's body, pushed himself deliberately even closer to John's hard erection at his back, yet didn't give any indication of struggling against John's loose grip around his wrist. Quite the opposite, he accepted John's power over his desire, over his ecstasy, over his release, and gave in completely to his own helplessness.

 

John interrupted the start of Sherlock's orgasm three more times. Sherlock didn't say anything the entire time. Not a word, not a sigh, not a moan. He was apparently too far gone for anything like that. His gasping, stuttering breaths were the only sounds that came out of him. His whole body appeared to be taut, and at the same time utterly without strength.

 

Finally, John pulled Sherlock's hand away for the fourth time and started rubbing the slippery, reddened opening in Sherlock's glans himself. A long, high, drawn-out cry escaped Sherlock's parted lips. His head fell back even further, his body tensed, and white semen spurted out from under John's fingers. John immediately took his hand away, pushed Sherlock away from him, crawled between the spread legs and invaded the quivering body with a single, firm stroke, even as Sherlock's orgasm continued.

 

John gasped when he felt the pulsating warmth around his hard cock. Sherlock's muscles clenched and massaged his erection, and John drove in. Hard. Deep. Fast. He lifted Sherlocks legs onto his shoulders in order to plunge even further into the willing body. As if from a distance, he heard Sherlock's groans, saw his splayed hands scrabbling in the sheets, felt him opening up underneath him … completely open, taking him in completely … giving himself to him … and then John felt his own climax approaching, even while Sherlock's orgasm seemed to go on and on, his muscles continuing to contract around John.

 

"Don't stop!" Sherlock groaned, spreading his legs even further and putting his hands on his knees to pull them close to his chest. "More... John... I … I … I think... OH GOD!!"

 

John watched in disbelief as Sherlock climaxed a second time, a small amount of semen dripping and splashing with almost agonising sluggishness onto Sherlock's stomach.

 

"Oh my God," John whispered huskily. He felt the new muscle contractions around his unbearably hard erection, thrust in once more, felt everything with a sudden, blinding, burning intensity, and spilled with a cry deep inside Sherlock's trembling body.

 

Once the aftershocks of his orgasm had let up a bit, he crouched over Sherlock. A bit dazed and uncoordinated, he rolled over beside the other man and gathered him close. Sherlock promptly snuggled up against him and buried his face in John's chest. Shudders continued to run through the slender form in his arms, and every time an incredibly lustful sigh fell from the full, red lips, making Sherlock's breath flow hot and moist over John's skin. The sighs were following by a seemingly never-ending stream of whispered utterances that sounded like " _ohgodohgodohgodohgod_ " in a tone that was both completely overwhelmed and utterly satiated.

 

"That was insane," John summarised his own sense of being overcome, breathing a kiss onto the wild curls. "Completely insane. Did you stretch before? How much vaseline did you use? That was like cutting through butter with a hot knife."

 

"There's still plenty there," Sherlock responded, sounding both exhausted and rather pleased with himself.

 

"You are the most incredible, fascinating, wonderful man I've ever met." As soon as John heard himself say those last words, he had the urge to wish he'd never said them.

 

"You're only saying that because your brain is drowning in serotonin and endorphins," Sherlock murmured against his chest. He sounded sleepy. "Do you feel better now?"

 

"Yeah," John said, already feeling ashamed for having wished he'd never said those things. It was the truth, after all. And Sherlock deserved to know the truth. It was just that declarations like that were incredibly difficult for John to make ever since... since Victor.

 

At the same time, Sherlock had long since become someone John could interact with on an even playing field, someone at his level and whom he felt was his equal. And who never shied away from the essence of his true nature. Someone who acknowledged his faults, admitted them with a sigh and accepted them with a shrug, and who still had such a low estimation of himself that he was amazed by even the smallest compliments. Someone whose face lit up when he was praised and who then turned around and said or did just as many things that he knew would get him in trouble.

 

As he held Sherlock in his arms and let his thoughts wander, still experiencing the echoes of their passion in his body … John suddenly began to talk.

 

"Sherlock... you're brilliant and completely unbelievable. You let me do things that others... You have ideas no one's ever had before..."

 

"John? You do realise I'm still awake and can hear everything you're saying?" The casual question came from somewhere near John's left nipple, where Sherlock's head was still resting.

 

"Yeah."

 

"Ah..." Sherlock said to show he understood. "Then this is one of those things we won't mention with a word tomorrow and both act as if it never happened?"

 

"Exactly."

 

"Good," Sherlock answered nonchalantly and yawned. "I just wanted to make sure."

 

"Sherlock, you... you should know that I..." John stopped. He'd lost his train of thought somehow, but then everything came back to him and he started to speak, not having any idea where he should stop. "I admit I only brought you into my house because I wanted to make sure I'd have access to you any time I wanted, that you'd be available for sex any time. But you have so much more to offer than just... You even tried to tell me... that you can speak foreign languages and... and I just wouldn't listen. But now... I don't know anymore what I'd do without you. You're still the best cocksucker in London - and I have a basis for comparison, believe me! But you... you're not just a … sex toy for me anymore, and haven't been for a long time. Maybe you never were. I don't know. You've become … indispensable to me. Not just in bed... also to my work... and... in my life."

 

A gentle whistle of air sounded, and when John tilted his head to the side to see Sherlock's face, he realised that he'd fallen asleep. The question was: when? How much had he heard?

 

John sighed and rolled his eyes. The impossible wanker was going to give him grey hairs yet. That was for sure.

 

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

"Who actually won the election?" Sherlock asked when he and John were sitting across the table from each other at breakfast the next morning. Sherlock was still basking in the extremely satisfying aftereffects of the previous night, which included the smell of sperm, sex, and sweat. He'd only slipped into his pyjama trousers and hadn't even showered yet, while John was already dressed in suit and tie and rapping on his three-minute egg with more force than necessary.

 

"The wrong one!" John replied angrily.

 

Sherlock couldn't care less about politics, but the entire affair was enormously important to John, so he didn't let it go that easily. Even if he had to ruin the last pleasurable remnants of the afterglow of those spectacular multiple orgasms he'd had with his dogged line of questioning.

 

"Did Stevenson win? Or was it Parker after all?" Sherlock picked up a fresh roll and cut it open.

 

"Neither one..." John sighed disconsolately. "That Mycroft Holmes won. Completely out of nowhere."

 

Sherlock's hand hovered one second too long over the plate of ham before he withdrew it without taking anything, and let it drop into his lap. Luckily, John didn't notice anything as he was busy pouring himself some tea.

 

Under the shelter of the tabletop and the tablecloth hanging over the edge, Sherlock dug the nails of that hand into his thigh until he wanted nothing more than to scream in pain. But even an attentive observer wouldn't have seen anything more than a slight twitch in his eye, and John had more than enough distractions that morning.

 

At least the pain in Sherlock's leg allowed him to think clearly. His panic receded, and the room stopped spinning.

 

His half-brother Mycroft was the new mayor of London. Could it get any worse?

 

How long would he be able to keep his location secret from Mycroft now? How long would he be able to hide his true identity from John? And would John still want him once he found out the truth about him? How would John's feelings for him change once he knew who he really was?

 

With a queasy feeling in his stomach, Sherlock considered what means Mycroft would employ to get his hands on Sherlock again and bring him to heel. He choked on a lump in his throat. Would the entire nightmare start all over again? Were all the games of hide-and-seek through the years in vain after all? The room around him began to spin again. He dug his fingernails painfully into his thigh until his lungs were able to fill with oxygen once more.

 

Sherlock glanced at John across the breakfast table. He couldn't let John catch on. He wanted to enjoy these last few unsullied moments with him. Would John support him against Mycroft once the bomb went off - and Sherlock didn't doubt for one second that it would come to that; fate simply hated him that much. Would John stick by him?

 

Sherlock hoped so. After all, that was all he had left.

 

Hope. And the physical protection of John's guards, gates, fences, and walls.

 

Sherlock pushed his plate away. He'd lost his appetite. He felt sick.

 

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_**To be continued...** _

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

No picset this time, but lots of notes.

 

Black Velvet (which really was invented as a mourning drink):

<http://www.bbcgoodfood.com/recipes/3471/black-velvet>

<https://www.guinness-storehouse.com/en/cooking_black_cocktail.aspx>

[http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Black_Velvet_%28beer_cocktail%29](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Black_Velvet_\(beer_cocktail\))

 

Here is a picture of a paddle like the one I imagine John's leather paddle looks like:

<https://sm-shop.com/peitschen-und-paddel/paddelklatschen/3284-paddle-with-studs-black.html>

 

Here is what a prince's wand looks like:

[http://www.meo.de/catalog/product_info.php?cPath=180&products_id=8374&language=en&osCsid=a84ec625cf1c4665baf2be57f387a15e](http://www.meo.de/catalog/product_info.php?cPath=180&products_id=8374&language=en&osCsid=a84ec625cf1c4665baf2be57f387a15e)

 

And now... dilators … also called 'sounds' (the name by which they should be familiar to most people):

 

[http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sound_%28medical_instrument%29](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sound_\(medical_instrument\))

[http://www.meo.de/catalog/product_info.php?cPath=66_63&products_id=8369&language=en](http://www.meo.de/catalog/product_info.php?cPath=66_63&products_id=8369&language=en)

[http://www.meo.de/catalog/product_info.php?cPath=66_63&products_id=4271&language=en](http://www.meo.de/catalog/product_info.php?cPath=66_63&products_id=4271&language=en)

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 


	23. How the Mighty Have Fallen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft getting nice and cosy in his office... more flashbacks... and a reunion with one Gregory Lestrade!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation by the most amazing [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/profile)

**Chapter 23**

 

**How the Mighty Have Fallen**

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

A week after the mayoral election, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade strode into City Hall. A single, courageous ray of the setting sun had struggled through the rainclouds, causing the crests of the waves on the Thames to glitter like diamonds for a brief moment.

 

It was late, but not yet past normal business hours. Lestrade was used to worse from his work with the police.

 

There were still crowds of tourists milling around the entry hall and the spiral staircase that curled up through the centre of the building. Lestrade chose the lift. The man he'd come to speak with occupied one of the upper floors, and Lestrade didn't want to arrive late for his appointment. So he bypassed the stairs and the magnificent view they offered of the Tower Bridge, preferring to spend the brief lift ride wracking his brains for what seemed the hundredth time in the past few days over what the newly elected mayor could possibly want from him.

 

The dinging of the lift bell tore him away from his thoughts. He announced himself to the blond secretary, and she led him - with a resolutely friendly smile - directly to the mayor's office. She rapped smartly on the door, opened it, and held it for Lestrade.

 

"Mr Holmes? Detective Inspector Lestrade for you." Then she turned to Lestrade and said, "Mr Holmes is expecting you."

 

Lestrade entered the room and heard the door close behind him. His first thought was that it looked like a fairly normal, modern office.

 

The man sitting behind the desk, however, appeared oddly out of place with his three-piece suit and fob watch on a chain. He would have looked more at home seated behind a massive wooden desk and surrounded by dark oak with brass trim, in place of the practical, straightforward computer screens, glass and chrome of the current furnishings.

 

"Good day, Detective Inspector," Mycroft Holmes greeted him, gesturing toward one of the chairs designated for visitors across from his desk. "Please - have a seat."

 

"Good evening, sir," Lestrade returned the salutation and took a seat. "Congratulations on winning the election."

 

A smile curled the corners of the mayor's lips, but Lestrade could tell it was just a cover that didn't reach his eyes.

 

"You must be wondering why I've invited you here..." Mycroft Holmes began, drawing his words out, but he stopped there and didn't finish the sentence. Icy blue eyes gave Lestrade a thorough once-over, and then the mayor sighed. It sounded slightly put-out. "Well, it was probably too much to expect you to remember..."

 

"I remember quite well, sir," Lestrade countered with practised courtesy. "Your campaign posters weren't the first reminder either; there have been one or two articles in the papers over the past couple of years. I never forget a face, and I rarely forget a name." He cleared his throat. "How's your brother doing anyway? His name hasn't shown up on the record since then … at least as far as I know. It didn't come up during your campaign at any rate. I hope there's nothing..."

 

Mycroft Holmes didn't appear pleased by the turn the conversation was taking. "We've gone our separate ways," he said, cutting Lestrade off. "I didn't ask you here to philosophise over my brother."

 

"Fine..." Lestrade said slowly. The gruff response took him by surprise, but he thought it wiser not to let that show. Mr Holmes' brother was obviously the black sheep in the family - and who liked to talk about the rotten apples in their family tree? No one. Least of all people who'd made something of themselves.

 

"Why have you asked me here then?"

 

"I’ve made a point of keeping a close eye on your career since our first meeting," Mycroft declared with a tight, somewhat patronising smile.

 

"Those must have been some pretty boring years for you, at least up until the last eight months," Lestrade remarked neutrally, albeit with a healthy portion of self-deprecation. "The longer I sit here, the more I get the sneaking feeling that I... might have you to thank for my promotion."

 

Mycroft tilted his head in acknowledgment. "There is a remote possibility that I may have let your name drop on one or two occasions."

 

Lestrade crossed his legs and scratched his temple. "Why me?"

 

"Because there's never been so much as a hint of corruption where you're concerned." Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "Men like you are too valuable to ignore. I need you."

 

"Me?" Lestrade exclaimed, nonplussed, pressing both hands to his chest. "Me? Are you sure? Just because I'm the last honest copper?"

 

Mycroft's thin lips formed a smirk. "I wouldn't have chosen those particular words, but... yes. Precisely because you are _the last honest 'copper'_ , as Scotland Yard's finest are so charmingly called."

 

"Sounds weird when _you_ say it," Lestrade replied with a strange look on his face. "But with all due respect, sir... just because you set me up for promotion doesn't mean I'm going to dance to your tune."

 

A pensive smile flitted across Mycroft's lips. Pensive and calculating. "I'd hoped you would do so based on your convictions rather than gratitude."

 

"What do you have in mind?" Lestrade asked, his suspicion obvious.

 

"To make London a better city," Mycroft answered without hesitating.

 

"Modest," Lestrade remarked dryly. "What do you need me for? Don't you have a whole team full of experts? And what about the _London Assembly_? Are they all a bunch of knobs? All twenty-five of them? I hope you don't mind me being a bit sceptical. And if you're going to start with the police... why are you mucking about in my ranks? What influence can I possibly have?"

 

"Quite a lot," Mycroft replied easily. "It's par for the course for a man in my position to hear lies all day. From you, Detective Inspector, I would expect to hear the truth."

 

"What do you have in mind?" Lestrade repeated his question, but this time it was coloured by genuine interest, and the shadow of a smile passed over the mayor's face.

 

"London is _my_ town for the next four years. I'm responsible for the well-being of its inhabitants," Mycroft began his explanation, leaned back in his armchair and pressed his fingertips together. "My decisions will have an effect on all areas of their lives … therefore, those decisions must be based on accurate information and well-founded considerations." He held Lestrade's gaze. "I want London to be a safe place. In order to achieve that, I will need any help I can get."

 

Lestrade exhaled in a low whistle. "I can imagine that terrorists and the mob are going to throw a bit of a spanner into those plans. Not to mention all the petty crooks. Or did you want to take them all on at once?"

 

"Perhaps," was Mycroft's simple answer. "If there's no other way. But first and foremost, I would merely like to initiate a phase of peace and quiet for London."

 

"Nice idea," Lestrade said in a faintly sarcastic tone. "But how exactly do you plan to achieve that?"

 

"Let that be my worry, Detective Inspector." Mycroft stood up. "But look at me - I'm such a terrible host. May I offer you something to drink? Sparkling water, perhaps?"

 

"Yeah, that'd be nice."

 

Lestrade expected Mycroft Holmes to call for his secretary to serve him, but the mayor himself went over to a cabinet, opened it, took out a bottle and a glass and poured. He returned to Lestrade with the full glass in his hand and held it out to him.

 

"Here you are."

 

"Thanks," Lestrade said, astonished, and took the drink. Their fingertips brushed for a fraction of a second, causing Lestrade's skin to tingle from the fleeting contact.

 

"You've just mentioned an interesting topic," Mycroft resumed their conversation once he'd sat down in his chair again. "Organised crime."

 

"The mob?" Lestrade asked. "What about them?"

 

"Give me the short version to start with," Mycroft said, shrugging.

 

"The short version," Lestrade echoed with a feeling that he was starting to get in over his head. "You do know I'm in Homicide, and there's a whole other division for organised crime?" But when he saw that the mayor was watching him expectantly, he cleared his throat and gave a brief sketch of the Russian mafia, the Chinese, and … "And then there's also our own home-grown brand under the leadership of John Watson. Better known as _Doc Watson_. He's been first fiddle in London for years... The Chinese haven't really got a firm foothold, and the Russians are just out to make trouble. Watson's the real number one here in Southern England. The others might as well pack their bags and go home. The hierarchy's taken from the Italians … but you'll find his organisation's a real melting pot of the nations."

 

Mycroft nodded thoughtfully. "He's involved in all the usual?"

 

Lestrade nodded as well. "Drugs, running guns... like you said, the usual. He's supposedly got half of Scotland Yard on his payroll." He finished his water and, after looking around, set his glass on the mayor's desk. "But the interesting part is..." Lestrade chewed briefly on his lower lip. "This bloke, Mike Stamford, was his advisor for years … his right-hand man, if you will. But recently, there's been word that _Doc's_ taken on a second _consigliere_. Bloke by the name of..." Lestrade paused and frowned as he tried to remember.

 

"I thought you never forget a name," Mycroft remarked, his tone a mixture of condescension and amusement.

 

"Sigerson!" Lestrade cried out triumphantly. "Bloke named _Sigerson_. No one knows anything else. No one's seen him yet either. Maybe _Doc_ just made him up to intimidate his people and keep them on their toes."

 

If Detective Inspector Lestrade had known the new mayor, Mycroft Holmes, any better, he might have noticed how severely the casual mention of the name Sigerson affected him. As it was, however, the brief yet distinct twitch in Mycroft Holmes' right eye went unnoticed.

 

"Maybe it's something else altogether..." Lestrade offered. "It could also be this Sigerson's related to some VIP and Doc Watson's keeping him around until … well, until he can be assured of certain concessions on the part of whoever it is."

 

"Kidnapping and blackmail?" Mycroft asked, faintly alarmed.

 

"Oh no, nothing as obvious as that," Lestrade demurred with a grim smile. "Doc's done that trick already. Invited the niece of a Bolivian police chief to a party and didn't let her leave until... certain contacts in Bolivia had been arranged and certain agreements were in place."

 

"Was the young lady hurt in any manner?"

 

Lestrade shook his head. "No - Doc's got his own twisted code of honour. He never touches a hair on the head of any of his _guests_. Plus... according to everything you hear, Doc Watson's gayer than a box of birds." Lestrade shrugged. "But that's just reading tea leaves. No one knows anything for certain. This Sigerson could be anything or nothing."

 

"I believe that will suffice for the time being," Mycroft said in a tone of finality. "Thank you - I'll be getting back to you at some point."

 

Lestrade stood up, but hesitated uncertainly for a moment. When he realised the mayor was neither going to stand nor shake his hand, he hinted at a bow, said, "Mr Holmes," and left.

 

Once in the lift, he ran his thumb over the pads of his fingers which Mycroft Holmes had touched. They were still tingling.

 

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

No sooner was the mayor alone than he took his mobile phone out of the pocket of his jacket and dialed a number. He listened to it ring, and when the connection went through, he spoke in a low, urgent tone.

 

"Hello, Ben - or whatever you're calling yourself these days... My health is of no consequence right now. Ben, I need a satellite... No, just a few photos... No, I'm not going to tell you why. I'll send you the coordinates. What? … It's not about the property. I need images of the people... Yes... The faces need to be discernible... How soon? You know me, Ben. Yesterday... Yes, I know you'll do your best... The very same to you."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_"Mummy! Say it's not true!" Mycroft cried, distressed and angry, when he burst into his mother's small sitting room, which was furnished with antique Hepplewhite pieces._

_Sylvia Holmes sat in her favourite chair, the same one she always sat in at this time of day, drinking the finest First Flush Assam tea from a cup belonging to the whisper-thin Chinese porcelain set that had once been her grandmother's._

_Not a single one of her auburn hairs - so similar to her son's - was out of place, not a single wrinkle marred her simple yet elegant, dove-blue dress which artfully disguised the gentle curves of her hips - for just like her son, she tended toward plumpness._

_Her son's tempestuous entrance didn't faze her in the least. She took another sip, set her cup down on the saucer in her left hand, and then set the porcelain pieces down carefully on the table in front of her. It wasn't until that was done that she turned to her offspring, who was standing in the middle of the room breathing hard and only barely able to control himself._

_"Sit down, Mycroft," she said calmly. "You know all this flapping about makes me nervous."_

_"I don't want to sit!" Mycroft exclaimed angrily. Aside from that, his mother's words were just another one of her empty sayings. Mycroft had never seen his mother be anything other than completely cool and in control. She was never agitated or disquieted, never mind angry or even furious. There were days on which he envied her equanimity. He worshipped his mother and tried to follow her example in everything. But he found it especially difficult to achieve that Stoic calm and composure. Particularly today._

_His mother continued to regard him dispassionately. "You realise that this kind of behaviour is completely inappropriate."_

_"Inappropriate!" Mycroft repeated, incensed, but his mother's gentle, indirect reproach had its desired effect. His cheeks flushed and he turned his gaze away, chagrined._

_"I presume your father has spoken to you. Or shall we blame puberty for your outburst?" she asked with mild, sincere interest._

_Mycroft sat down on the dainty couch by the window and brooded quietly to himself for a while. He was a gangly youth who still looked chubby despite his last growth spurt. He was more mature than one might have thought for his fourteen years, and he was much more intelligent and ambitious than his schoolmates. His voice was already as deep as a grown man's, but just now he spoke with the inflections of a child._

_"Mummy... please tell me you're going to talk Father out of this ridiculous idea."_

_"So he's told you that..."_

_"That he's going to bring that … bastard into our home. Yes, in fact, he did!" Mycroft cried in disgust._

_"Mycroft - where did you learn your manners?" Sylvia scolded him, although her words didn't carry any heat. "You know it's impolite to interrupt someone. I hope you didn't speak to your father in that manner," she lectured him. She waited for him to confirm that he was too stunned to say anything at all to his father before continuing, "We do intend to offer the boy a home. His mother has died and he has no one else. It is our duty to take him in."_

_"Duty?" Mycroft echoed, completely flabbergasted. "Duty? What are orphanages for? Mother - I don't understand! How can you let him do this to you? The living proof of his shame … under YOUR roof! How can he ask something like this of you?"_

_His mother's face remained expressionless as she listened to him. Once he was finished, she said, "I'm going to go even further. I am not only going to welcome this child into our home, I am going to suggest to your father that we adopt him."_

_Mycroft gaped at her, open-mouthed. "You haven't even seen him yet!" He was beside himself._

_"That doesn't matter," Sylvia replied calmly._

_"Mummy! You can't just sit there and watch this bastard..."_

_"Mycroft, that's enough," she cut him off with a cool, measured voice. "His name is Sherlock and I will not allow him to be referred to by that … disrespectful and highly improper designation. Not even by you. Especially not by you. He can't help it, after all, and he_ is _your brother."_

_"Brother!" Mycroft all but spat the word out. He jumped up from the couch and started to pace back and forth in front of the windows._

_His mother watched him, unmoved. After a while, she said, "I really do wish you'd stop that. It puts unnecessary wear on Great-Aunt Elizabeth's Aubusson carpet."_

_"I'm sorry," Mycroft murmured out of habit and stopped where he was. He seemed to be a bit lost at first, but then a heavy, peevish expression came over his face. "If you hadn't forgiven Father back then, we could have been spared this insult."_

_For the first time, something flickered in Sylvia Holmes' hitherto impassive face. She hesitated and appeared uncertain for a moment. "You were too young back then to understand," was all she ended up saying._

_"Then explain it to me now," Mycroft demanded, full of youthful impetuousness._

_"Your father wanted children. Lots of children. I wish I would have been happy to fulfil," Sylvia began, now that she had regained control. "But after you were born... I had … several miscarriages. I sought help from doctors. Too many doctors..." She folded her hands in her lap and then continued tonelessly, "Nothing helped and finally... I couldn't anymore, and I decided not to try any longer. Your father and I started to drift apart. I may not have been very tactful about the whole thing."_

_Mycroft snorted. "Drifted apart! Why are you still trying to defend him? He moved out! He abandoned us! I wasn't even five years old!"_

_"It's never the fault of a single party when a relationship fails. It always takes two. I played a part as well. At any rate... two years later, he came back - on your seventh birthday. We reconciled. With the past. With our mistakes." She took a deep breath. "You may not believe it, but our marriage was - at least for me - a love match. And I still have strong feelings for your father." She looked Mycroft in the eye, her gaze steady and calm. But Mycroft remained silent, not giving any further sign than a slight shake of his head. "I'm going to accept Sherlock as my son, because he can make your father happy in a way I never can," she said resolutely._

_"But Mummy," Mycroft objected stubbornly. "You can't..." His own anguish was too great and his adolescent selfishness too intransigent at the moment - and so his mother's words rang out all but unheard, leaving next to no impression on her only child._

_"I can and I shall," Sylvia said in a tone that brooked no argument. "You have the same father. Sherlock is your brother..."_

_"He's an interloper!" Mycroft interjected obstinately. "An usurper - a slap in the face! And if anything, he's just my half-brother!"_

_"I'm beginning to wonder whether that school is really as good as they want us to think it is. You've never learned to speak like that from me, at any rate." Sylvia Holmes sighed softly and smoothed her dress out over her knee, even though there was never a wrinkle there. "I can't force you to be nice to Sherlock. But promise me you won't hate him, at the very least."_

_"You're actually serious," Mycroft said, stunned. His mother had only now got through to him, and he was forced to realise that all of his desperate attempts to make things end up the way he wanted them were going to come to naught, fall on deaf ears and be disregarded. His parents were going to do what they liked … regardless of him and his feelings. Mycroft felt betrayed, unjustly treated, and very alone._

_His mother got up, came over to him, and put her hand against his cheek in a rare gesture of affection._

_"My dear boy... you're going to find your way - I know that. I don't need to worry about you. When you were as old as Sherlock is now, your father came back to us and you had an intact family once again. Sherlock has no one left. Just a father. Your father. And he is father to both of you."_

_Mycroft lowered his eyes and swallowed. "Father loves him more than he loves me already," he said, as if the admission pained him. "And he hasn't even seen him or spoken to him once."_

_His mother patted his cheek absently before taking her seat on her chair again._

_"You're not a little boy any longer, Mycroft," she said simply. "It's time for you to learn to control your emotions." A faint look of sadness found its way into her eyes. "It may not be easy for you at first, but you can do it. After all, you're my son."_

_It wasn't until much later in life that Mycroft understood that his mother (despite - or perhaps because of - her highly controlled nature) had loved his father with a desperate intensity, and would have done anything - truly anything at all - simply in order to make him happy. Her own son came in second, and Mycroft sometimes wondered whether motherhood (which included adopting Sherlock) had been nothing more than a means to an end for her, in order to continue to secure a continuation of her husband's love and affection._

 

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Three days later, Mycroft Holmes held in his hands the incredibly high-resolution images Ben had procured for him. It was bright and sunny in all of the pictures, which indicated to Mycroft that they had been taken a while ago, as it had rained non-stop in London for the past two weeks. He inspected every picture thoroughly, but ended up tossing them onto the floor with a certain impatience until he came to the image of a young man with dark curls who was sitting, shirtless, in one of the open windows and smoking a cigarette. His face was turned up toward the sky, so it was easy to recognise. If Mycroft had been more of a touchy-feely person, he would certainly have been able to summon up more empathy for the expression of longing and quiet desperation on his half-brother's narrow, pale face.

 

As it was, however, all he said - with no small degree of annoyance - was, "Oh, Sherlock! Whatever have you got yourself into now!"

 

Once again, Mycroft was going to be forced to resort to Sherlock-specific security measures.

 

Was this never going to end? Had the bloody bastard come to earth only to make trouble for him? To give him heartburn and ulcers? What mess was that walking catastrophe about to set loose now?

 

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Lestrade meandered along the Thames with the takeaway coffee he'd just purchased, as he still had a bit of time before his second appointment with the mayor. It had just stopped raining an hour ago for the first time in two weeks, and the wet streets gleamed in the light of the hazy afternoon sun.

 

This second meeting had garnered a few inquisitive looks within his department, and might even have started the first rumours that he was the mayor's new protégé. Lestrade took a deep breath. For years - for decades, in fact - he'd keep strictly clear of any hint of favouritism. And now this! It wasn't even as if there were anything going on. He hadn't been offered anything, and he hoped it was going to stay that way.

 

His mobile buzzed. A text message. He glanced at the screen, opened the message, and stuck his phone back into his trouser pocket with a sigh. His wife wouldn't be home again tonight. Supposedly going to a girl friend's house. Lestrade laughed bitterly. A girl friend! Her newest _Lothario_ was more like it. It had been going on for years now. Sometimes more - sometimes less. He knew it. He'd known it practically from the beginning. He wasn't stupid, after all. And yet he didn't do anything about it. What could he have done anyway? It wasn't as if he didn't love her anymore … still, they'd gone in different directions in the course of their marriage when it came to … certain needs.

 

Lestrade checked his watch, finished his coffee, tossed the empty cup into one of the conveniently placed rubbish bins, and set off for his appointment with the mayor. It was time.

 

When Lestrade exited the lift, the receptionist just greeted him with a friendly nod and made a gesture toward the door to the mayor's office in invitation.

 

"Mr Holmes is expecting you," she said with a smile. "You can go on in."

 

Lestrade did as he was told, and found the mayor standing in front of the bank of windows overlooking the Thames. He was wearing just his waistcoat over his shirt - his jacket was draped over the back of his chair - and he had both hands buried deep in his trouser pockets.

 

"Thank you for making time on such short notice," Mycroft Holmes said after glancing over his shoulder, managing not to sound the least bit grateful.

 

"Not a problem," Lestrade replied in place of a standard greeting. If the mayor wasn't going to bother with formalities, then he could do without them as well. He took off his damp trenchcoat and laid it across one of the visitor's chairs without asking for permission. At the same time, something stopped him from sitting down without being invited to do so, which was why he mirrored the mayor and remained standing.

 

After a pause, during which neither of them said anything and the mayor remained standing there with his back turned, Lestrade cleared his throat.

 

"Well? Have you settled into your _beehive_ by now?" he asked, referencing the nickname the people of London had given the unusual building.

 

"Beehive?" Mycroft turned around and raised one eyebrow. He seemed to be amused. "I wouldn't have thought you were a prude, Detective Inspector."

 

Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and tried to suppress a grin. "Yeah... I didn't really want to storm in like a bull in a china shop and say _'glass testicle'_. It could be you think it's an inappropriate nickname for your official office."

 

"Inappropriate! Who do you think coined the name?" Mycroft returned with a smirk.

 

Astonishment and merriment brightened Lestrade's face. His mouth split into an incredulous laugh. "YOU? That was _you_?"

 

"I find _beehive_ much less... apt," Mycroft explained with a faint grimace meant to express his distaste. "What would that make me? The queen bee? Really..."

 

Lestrade gave a full-bodied laugh. "I'm sorry," he said, giggling and out of breath. "But - that's too rich." He wiped tears of laughter from his eyes.

 

"It's fine," Mycroft assured him, amused, before a strange, pensive look came over him. "There's something … refreshing about it. Your laugh, I mean."

 

Lestrade couldn't think of a single response to that, so he just inclined his head in a slightly embarrassed nod and asked, "Why did you ask me to come?"

 

"Yes..." Mycroft inhaled loudly through his nose, and his lips twitched. "It concerns a rather delicate matter." As Lestrade continued to watch him with an open and expectant look on his face rather than responding, Mycroft continued, "I must ask you not to undertake anything in regards to this Mr Sigerson."

 

"I wasn't planning on it," Lestrade replied. "First because no crime has been committed, and second because I'm in Homicide, as you well know, and not Organised and Economic Crime - but now you've made me curious."

 

Mycroft sighed. He should have known that this Detective Inspector was one of the persistent ones. As well as one of those who always had to find the reason behind things. But he seemed to be the only logical person to talk to about his concern, and he still believed that. At least he knew he could count on Inspector Lestrade for a certain degree of diplomacy and tact and perhaps even complete discretion.

 

"All right, what's wrong with the man?" Lestrade pressed, crossing his arms over his chest.

 

"Nothing," Mycroft answered evasively and not entirely truthfully. "I simply have a … let us say … _personal_ interest in you NOT taking an interest in him. I imagine you might find ways of convincing your colleagues in the organised crime command of the same thing."

 

"Aha. And how much would it be worth to you?" Lestrade demanded with a challenging look in his eye.

 

Mycroft shook his head with a thin, appreciative smile. "I'm not so stupid as to make another attempt at tempting you with money."

 

"That's something at least," Lestrade retorted dryly.

 

Mycroft inspected the tips of his shoes for a moment before looking the Inspector directly in the eye.

 

"I know that bribery would be pointless with you. So I'm _asking_ you. Not as the mayor, but as … a private individual."

 

Lestrade stared at him dumbly. Then he wrenched his head to the side, unsettled, and went over to the chair where his coat was. He chewed on his lower lip and glared at the coat, then turned on his heel to face Mycroft again.

 

"Fantastic. You've found my weak spot," he grumbled and took a deep breath. "Okay. Fine. I won't initiate any investigations. And I'll keep my ear to the ground with my colleagues. But if _anything_ happens and the police _need_ to intervene, then... I'm not going to stop anyone," he said firmly, pointing his index finger.

 

"No one is asking you to cover up a crime," Mycroft declared calmly.

 

"Good," Lestrade said, nodding his head in relief. "At least we got that straight."

 

Mycroft Holmes was silent for a while as he looked the other man over. Then he said, "Thank you."

 

"You're welcome," Lestrade said, still a bit put out. "But I'm not happy about it."

 

"Happiness is overrated," Mycroft remarked with a peculiar undercurrent to his voice.

 

"Because you're such a good judge of it..." Lestrade said without thinking, only to be promptly shocked at himself. "Oh... I didn't mean... I shouldn't have said that... I mean..."

 

Mycroft simply waved off his stammered apologies. "You think I'm happy?"

 

"That's none of my business, sir," Lestrade said with formal courtesy.

 

Mycroft turned back to the wall of windows and clasped his hands behind him. He watched as the dark clouds heralding the next rain front gathered over London.

 

"It's going to rain. You should take an umbrella with you, Detective Inspector. My secretary will give you one."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Just two days after his discussion with Detective Inspector Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes emerged from the car that had brought him home. The chauffeur drove off. Mycroft didn't need him anymore that evening. The steady rain had finally stopped, and the sun was struggling its way through the thin cloud cover. Mycroft was still standing on the pavement, about to enter the house, nod to the concierge and access the lift with his keycard when two large men in dark suits appeared on either side of him.

 

"Good evening, mayor," one of the men greeted him politely. He had black hair and appeared to be of East Indian heritage. "Please don't make a fuss."

 

The other man was blond and had a slight Cockney accent when he spoke: "If you'd just follow us, please..." Then he pulled back his jacket far enough for Mycroft to get a brief look at the gun in his shoulder holster.

 

"Of course, gentlemen," Mycroft responded in a cool, obliging manner.

 

A car came to a stop behind him, and Mycroft turned around. The blond strongarm man gestured unambiguously at the black limousine with the mirrored windows that now stood at the kerb.

 

Mycroft came closer, the window was lowered, and a man with dark blond hair appeared, flashing his perfect row of teeth in a broad smile.

 

"Good evening, Mr Holmes."

 

"Good evening, Mr Watson. I actually expected to see you earlier than this."

 

If John Watson was surprised by that response, he didn't let it show. "Please, get in, Mr Holmes," the mob boss said with a smile so friendly it was like ice. "And without arousing attention, if at all possible."

 

"Of course," Mycroft Holmes agreed, waiting until the dark-skinned man walked around the car to open the door for him. Then he followed and slid in next to Doc Watson in the back seat.

 

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

**_To be continued..._ **

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

PICSET!

 

<http://lorelei-lee.tumblr.com/post/123123033194/teaser-for-chaper-23-of-deflowered-directors>

 

 

 

Consigliere - counselor

<https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Consigliere>

 

Lothario – seducer of women

<https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lothario>

 

So that you can picture Sylvia Holmes' sitting room a bit better:

 

<http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Hepplewhite>

 

London's City Hall really does have a couple of funny nicknames.

[http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/City_Hall_%28London%29](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/City_Hall_\(London\))

"Glass Testicle" and "Beehive" are just two of them... I chose the Beehive because "Queen" can also refer to a gay man...

[http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Queen_%28slang%29](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Queen_\(slang\))

 

I researched like mad for this chapter and found out a lot about the political workings of London and the UK in general.

<http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mayor_of_London>

 

London Assembly (like a city council or administration) with 25 members

<http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/London_Assembly>

They monitor the mayor and can make suggestions. They also decide on the budget.

The last (real-life) mayoral elections in London were on 1 May 2012. The elections are held every four years. I more or less tried to orient this story by those dates. And I also discovered that there aren't that many cities in the UK where the mayor is elected in a direct election. Stupid little me, I thought it was like in Germany, where every city elects their mayor directly. You're never too old to learn something new - and I hope there won't be any more errors in my story. If you see something, though … please let me know! It wasn't intentional, just ignorance.

 

Here are a few pictures:

 

The mayor's balcony...

 

 

 

and his office…

(I wanted to give Mycroft one of those really nice, old offices with lots of dark wood … but then I looked on the internet and that dream evaporated in a puff of smoke.)

 

 

 

Pictures of City Hall:

BILD

 

<http://de.academic.ru/dic.nsf/dewiki/266421>

<http://alihanyconcepts.wordpress.com/out-of-your-box-project/london-city-hall/>

 

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo


	24. The Truth (and Nothing but the Truth?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation by the most kind [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/profile)

 

**Chapter 24 - The Truth (and Nothing but the Truth?)**

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

The trip didn't take very long. Naresh was driving the car in place of Bridges, and Dave sat on the front passenger seat - his hands never far from his shoulder holster and the gun it held. The back seat was silent, with both men either looking straight ahead or out the window with deliberately bored expressions. But that was all part of the game, and they both knew it.

 

Mycroft had the strong suspicion he was going to come out on the losing end of this particular show of force - and it was all going to be Sherlock's fault again, as usual.

 

John's thoughts were similar, although he couldn't have known it. Of course he was a crafty bargainer when it came to this type of negotiation, and of course he had an entire arsenal of threats, lies, and half-truths at his disposal in order to get what he wanted - which was to make the mayor his puppet. He had the sneaking suspicion, however, that his usual strategies might not work with this Mr Holmes, and he had no Plan B aside from holding a gun to his head. Well, to be fair, holding a gun to his opponent's head was his usual Plan B - but this time he was going to have to leave that option off the table; he'd never dealt with a dyed-in-the-wool mayor as adversary before.

 

It actually surprised him a bit that Holmes had expected him to show up. Or had he just said that to throw him off balance? John would have liked nothing better than to shoot the bastard and sink both him and the car in the Thames, but Mike had flat out forbidden him from doing that.

 

"YOU are not allowed to carry any weapons on your person! Is that clear? And don't give me any of your _'yeah, yeah's_ ," Mike had nagged at him, and John had had to grin despite his nerves.

 

He'd looked over at Sherlock to share the moment with him, maybe even to see a little half-smile on his face too. But Sherlock hadn't smiled much over the past few days, and John wasn't graced with the sight this afternoon either. Instead, Sherlock looked like he'd been chewed up and spit out. Pale, clammy skin, a tense expression, his lips pressed flat together. As if he were about to throw up. John couldn't stop himself from feeling his forehead.

 

"You don't look good, Sherlock. Go lie down," he'd told him. But Sherlock had just shaken his head with an odd look on his face, opened his mouth, closed it again, and then muttered something about _'accounts'_ and _'tax statements'_ before disappearing into John's office without so much as a good-bye kiss. John was in a hurry, and Mike was nagging at him, so all John had been able to do was ask Mike to keep an eye on Sherlock, which he agreed to.

 

Naresh slowed the car and flipped on the turn signal. John found himself back in the present and shook his head in annoyance. He couldn't afford to think about his … about Sherlock right now, right before the most important meeting of his career.

 

The car pulled to a stop in front of a low, modern bungalow in one of London's outlying boroughs.

 

"Charming place you have here," Mycroft remarked dryly.

 

"You know perfectly well this isn't actually my house," John replied neutrally and got out of the car as soon as Naresh opened the door for him. Dave did the same for Mycroft Holmes. After a quick, keen-eyed check of the area, Dave went to the door of the house and unlocked it. He entered first before holding the door open in invitation for the others.

 

"It must belong to a very good friend of yours, Mr Watson, if you need to go to such painstaking lengths to ensure your security on his property."

 

John chewed on the inside of his cheek, both angry and taken aback at such insolence.

 

"Friend … enemy... it's hard to tell the difference these days," he remarked acidly. "Just look at us … you might think we're friends, from a distance."

 

"But only from a very great distance with an abominable pair of binoculars," Mycroft tossed back lightly and entered the house.

 

John turned to Naresh and attempted to stare a hole through him with his eyes. But Naresh just shook his head apologetically.

 

"Sorry, boss," he said. "But Mr Stamford would have my head if I gave you my piece."

 

"Why do I only have employees who talk back?!" John swore quietly to himself before following Mycroft Holmes into the house.

 

It was a simply furnished bungalow that had been rented by a middleman. It was a place to meet on neutral ground to discuss delicate issues without the need to extend the same courtesies to one's counterpart that would be required for a guest in one's own home. And should it ever come to a physical confrontation, the body could be taken care of discreetly and in secret without leaving any bloodstains on one's own hearth.

 

Dave led the way into the living room, where two long couches stood opposite each other, separated by a low coffee table. John and Mycroft each claimed one of the couches for themselves. Dave took up position behind John, while Naresh stood near Mycroft. The sun - which had finally managed to break through the thick cover of clouds - bathed the room in warm, yellow light even through the filter of the opaque curtains. The effect set a strong contrast to the icy atmosphere that existed between the two seated men.

 

They regarded each other silently, each trying to assess the other, gauge his reactions, and find his soft spots.

 

"You're probably wondering why..." John finally began, only to be promptly interrupted by Mycroft's "Not really."

 

"Oh?" John said, pursing his lips and raising one eyebrow.

 

"No," Mycroft answered in a bored tone. "I've been expecting it since the day of my election - which must have come as quite a surprise to you. You'll have put up your own candidate, of course," Mycroft explained with irritating politeness. "Therefore, nothing could be more natural than to seek me out in order to... how should I put it..." Mycroft pretended he was looking for the right words, finally concluding in an arrogant, patronising manner, "...try and _woo_ me."

 

Something about that smile and the look that went with it seemed strangely familiar to John. _Where_ did he... But he didn't have time to wrack his brains over it right now, so he shoved the thought firmly away and focused all of his concentration on the most urgent problem. He'd expected an ambitious yet somewhat pusillanimous bureaucrat, but Mycroft Holmes was made of sterner stuff than he'd thought.

 

"I'm not just going to _try_ , Mr Holmes," John replied calmly, displaying a cold smile so as not to let his inner disquiet show. "I'm going to _succeed_ in bringing you round to my way of thinking."

 

"I assure you I'm on the edge of my seat," Mycroft remarked with such slick self-assuredness that John almost lost it right there.

 

"Go on," John said with icy crispness and a nonchalant lift of his shoulders. "Keep riling me up and find out what happens." Mycroft's eyebrows rose just a bit, but he remained silent and John continued: "If you want a war, you can have a war. Gladly, in fact. It's really neither here nor there for me. I have means at my disposal." He paused for a moment. "Now, are you ready to be reasonable or do I need to deliver … _proof_ that I never kid around or bother with empty threats?"

For the first time during their meeting, Mycroft Holmes looked like he was thinking about it. His gaze dropped from John's face and sank. He took a deep breath before looking up again. His eyes now seemed cold and hard.

 

"Fine. Let's take off the kid gloves. You want to blackmail me? Then do it. Name your conditions and I'll consider whether what you have to offer me in return is worth the trouble."

 

John was taken aback by how aggressive that little speech was, and he couldn't help letting it show.

 

"I've surprised you..." Mycroft noted thoughtfully. He also appeared startled, as if the idea gave him something to think about, and once again something about the look gave John a sense of déjà-vu.

 

"A little," John confessed. "I'm surprised that it's even necessary to explain the advantages of certain concessions on your end. I mean, what do you expect?" John shrugged. "Should I really insult your intelligence by listing all the kinds of leverage I have? It should be clear that all I can offer in return for your cooperation and accommodation is not to make too much trouble for you."

 

To John's astonishment, Mycroft didn't react to those words the way he expected. Rather than flinching back and giving in, or at least re-opening the negotiations and signalling his readiness to compromise in a snobbish tone of voice, his eyes narrowed like those of a bull that had been provoked once too often.

 

"I really do wish you'd stop beating around the bush," Mycroft stated in a deliberately disinterested tone. "It's so horribly tiresome."

 

"I'm afraid I don't understand..." John pressed, slightly unsettled. Dammit! He couldn't let this conversation get away from him, yet that seemed to be exactly what was happening. What the hell was the bastard talking about?

 

Mycroft looked him over intently, an odd expression on his face. "I've heard that my brother is in your... _custody_ ," he finally said, his smile both patronising and somewhat forced. "Now would you please blackmail me with it rather than blundering about in vague insinuations?"

 

"Your... brother?" John echoed, bewildered. "But I don't have anyone..." It was then that the other shoe dropped. John gasped. " _SHERLOCK_?!" he cried, stunned.

 

"Oh..." Mycroft said slowly, and straightened up. "You weren't aware that Sherlock is my brother?" His lips curled in an unctuous smile. "What delicious irony." He leaned back and casually crossed his legs.

 

John was still trying - in vain - to process the new data. All he could do was gape at Mycroft with what he feared was a completely dumbfounded expression. He'd forgot entirely about Dave and Naresh, and when one of them cleared his throat, the sound rang like thunder in John's ears. The couch he was sitting on, the room he was in... everything slowly took on solid form again. The man sitting across from him and watching him with a calculating gaze also became three-dimensional once more. His head still felt as if it had been swept clean, though. He had to think of something. And fast! Otherwise he wouldn't be able to maintain his position and authority within the mob for much longer.

 

What had he done to deserve a punishment like this? Was there a God in heaven after all? An extremely vengeful God who wanted him to suffer and had fun confounding all of his plans? All those plans... were they all to come to naught? John ground his teeth. He'd see about that - he wasn't going to give up that easily! And certainly not without a fight. This Mycroft Holmes might still be in for a surprise or two...

 

John, trying to maintain a nonchalant attitude, gave the mayor a carelessly appraising look.

 

"I admit I wasn't aware of your relationship before... but now that I am... Your brother's well-being is... I don't see any reason why I shouldn’t blackmail you on his account _now_."

 

Mycroft's eyes flashed in amusement for a fraction of a second, giving him the appearance of a cat who had already caught the mouse but wanted to _play_ with it a while before dealing the death blow.

 

"No," Mycroft finally said, shaking his head. "I don't believe you will."

 

"I might still surprise you," John remarked, employing his sweetest and most terrible smile.

 

Mycroft was brazen enough to give him a condescending look. "You already have. I wouldn't have thought that _you_ of all people would take my brother in … without any ulterior motive, nota bene. You didn't know who he was when you brought him into your home. Therefore... the possibility of future extortion opportunities can't have factored into your decision. You're keeping him for some other reason. I presume those reasons are primarily of a sexual nature." His gaze became even more condescending and treacly, his voice more sarcastic. "Or are there actually feelings involved?"

 

John stood up abruptly. "I'll contact you," he managed to press out coldly from between his gritted teeth.

 

"Do that, Doc," Mycroft returned good-naturedly, his expression one of utter smugness and self-satisfaction.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

"So it's Sherlock Holmes..." John's voice sounded flatly from the doorway.

 

Sherlock looked up. He hadn't heard John come in. He was still in John's office (where he'd fled following John's departure) with the Italian correspondence in front of him. Although he'd been staring at the papers ever since he sat down at John's desk, he hadn't taken in a single word of it. The writing had only got as far as his retinas, while his brain was busy torturing Sherlock with nightmares and playing what-if games with him in ever more horrific variations. A never-ending parade of scenes that all started in the same way: the end of the blissful situation he found himself in with John. From there the images that played out before his mind's eye all went in different directions … each one worse than the one before.

 

And now John was here in front of him, and fate was going to take its inescapable course. Sherlock would rather have watched from the gallery and left the lead role to someone else.

 

"Sherlock Sigerson," Sherlock corrected him. He heard sarcastic applause in his head. Why had he contradicted John on top of everything else? It was obvious even from a distance of ten metres that he was furious. _Well done, Sherlock. Enrage him even further!_ Sherlock would have liked nothing better than to give himself a good, hard kick in the arse. Maybe he should apologise? He opened his mouth, but the words that came out were anything other than an apology.

 

"I took my mother's name years ago. Legally, therefore, my name is _Sigerson_. Not _Holmes_." Sherlock listened helplessly as he talked himself out of house and home. Why did he constantly sabotage himself? Did it give him some perverse sense of pleasure? Sherlock tried to suss out what was going on inside himself, but all he could sense was the cold, dry pounding of his heart and the desperate emptiness in his soul. There was no lust at all, most certainly none of the _perverted_ variety. Negative on all fronts. He noted the way John's arms hung down beside his body, how his hands formed into fists even as he continued standing in the doorway.

 

Sherlock knew full well - if he wanted to save anything at this point, he couldn't afford to panic; he had to proceed intelligently and follow some sort of plan. He emulated the technique John used to try and calm himself, and took a deep, deliberate breath through his nose. Better.

 

"WHEN?!" John suddenly screamed at him. "When were you planning on telling me he's your brother?! That the bloody mayor is your fucking BROTHER?!"

 

"Today," Sherlock said tonelessly. "Earlier. Before you left."

 

"You!" John said, his voice quaking with anger. " _You_ let me walk right in there and hang myself."

 

The words reached Sherlock's ears, but he didn't really hear them. His entire focus was on John's fists, his stiff posture, and the distance between the two of them. Why wasn't John coming closer? To shout at him... to grab him, to... hit him. Sherlock's eyes widened. _Oh_. _Hitting_? He narrowed his eyes, concentrating even harder, tilted his head to one side and looked at John more closely.

 

"Why are you still standing over there by the door?" Sherlock voiced to his thoughts. "Why are you keeping your distance? Are you actually afraid of hitting me out of anger?"

 

John drew his head back, which had been thrust forward in a belligerent posture. Sherlock's words threw him somewhat for a loop. He licked his upper lip but didn't say anything.

 

That was confirmation enough for Sherlock. He laughed incredulously.

 

"That's it... You're actually... you're afraid of hitting me like this." He shook his head. "My God, John! Really! Let it go. I'm not tied up or gagged... If I don't want you to hit me there's no way you'd make contact. Believe me."

 

John bit his lip. The mistakes he'd committed that fatal day when he'd been too angry to formulate a single clear thought and attacked Sherlock the moment his men removed Glendale from the room... His eyes sank to the floor and he shook his head, as if in doing so he could drive away the images and memories.

 

"Promise me you'll defend yourself," John said, his voice raw. "Promise me... that you'd defend yourself." He hadn't planned on beating Sherlock. But he had been afraid that he might do it anyway out of anger...

 

He raised his gaze just in time to see Sherlock rolling his eyes. "Promise me!" he ordered him.

 

"Fine, all right. If it makes you happy," Sherlock said with an indulgent sigh. "If you ever attempt to attack or injure me, I will defend myself. Happy?"

 

"Yes." John swallowed. Happy wasn't really the right word. But it was better than before. It went beyond John's comprehension how Sherlock could dismiss that incident so cold-heartedly.

 

"And now are you planning on coming any closer?" Sherlock wanted to know, resting his chin on his hand. He could afford to relax a bit. If John was worried about Sherlock defending himself in the event of an attack, then at least there was no immediate danger of him being thrown out on his ear in the next five minutes. Now all he needed to do was keep cool and remain on guard. There was no sense in inadvertently giving away more than absolutely necessary. And for that, it was important to find out what Mycroft had said - or made up (which he wouldn't put past Mycroft in the least) - and how much of that John actually believed.

 

"No," John hissed angrily. "I'm still pissed off at you! You put me in an impossible situation! Exactly how stupid do you think I looked when he told me you're his brother? His brother! Bloody hell! Some sort of clue would have been really nice! That... that sodding politician thought I knew!" When Sherlock continued to watch him with that same focused concentration and attentiveness rather than reacting in any way, one of John's fuses blew. "HE THOUGHT - I - KNEW!"

 

"I heard you the first time," Sherlock griped with a nonchalance that only served to infuriate John even further. "There's no reason to yell."

 

"I'LL YELL AS LOUD AS I WANT! I HAD TO SIT THERE LIKE SOME VILLAGE IDIOT!" John gulped for air and tried to regain his composure. "And you still haven't said you're sorry!" He tossed both hands in the air, then pointed at his temples. "Do you see this here? See this? I'm going grey. At the temples. I'm getting grey hairs at my temples and it's all because of you! Why do I even do this to myself?! Hm?! Can you tell me that?"

 

"Your masochistic tendencies are probably more pronounced than you'd like to believe," Sherlock suggested impassively.

 

For one long moment, John stood there staring at him, his mouth hanging open. Then he scrubbed his hands through his hair.

 

"Don't start with that! Do not try to get clever with me!" He threatened Sherlock with his index finger. "I should have known from the start. From the first second! The same arrogance, the same sarcasm! God! Brothers!"

 

"John?" Sherlock said quietly yet firmly.

 

"YES! WHAT?!" John shouted indignantly.

 

"Do you think you could calm down again?" Sherlock requested. "I'm beginning to seriously worry about your blood pressure."

 

John stared wordlessly at Sherlock. Then he emitted a hoarse, angry screech, went over to the cluster of furniture and collapsed onto the couch.

 

"You..." he said in a menacing tone, pointing at Sherlock. "I'm not through with you."

 

"Good," Sherlock answered, smiling weakly, which earned him a wondering, appraising look from John. "I wouldn't have liked to leave you."

 

John snorted in amusement. "I didn't mean it like that, and you know it. You'd have to do much worse for me to really throw you out." He blinked. "God, I must be insane," he said half to himself, rubbing his hand over his face. Now that his anger was slowly dissipating, he was starting to feel rather tired.

 

"I lost face in front of my opponent. And it's all your fault. If anyone finds out about it... I'm finished." He took a deep breath before giving Sherlock a pained look. "Why didn't you say anything?"

 

Sherlock got up with a sigh and took a few tentative steps in John's direction, only to stop in the middle of the room. He looked so torn and lost that it cut John to the quick.

 

"We're not really brothers. We have the same father, that's all... that makes us half-brothers. When my mother died... I was adopted by my father and his wife." He made a helpless gesture with his hand. "Mycroft and I... we... we're not exactly poster children for a happy, loving family."

 

"And yet he thought I was going to use you to blackmail him," John mused. "But... if he doesn't even like you then..." John shook his head. "Sorry - I don't get it."

 

"Mycroft has always been extremely ambitious," Sherlock explained flatly. "His career was always his main priority, and I... I was the blot in his copybook. The pebble in his shoe. The thorn in his side. My sole purpose in life was to make trouble for him."

 

"Sounds familiar," John remarked dryly, and a small smile flitted across Sherlock's lips. "I'll bet you didn't miss a single opportunity to make his life difficult."

 

"Not a one," Sherlock agreed with a certain satisfaction and a twinkle in his eye.

 

"I almost feel sorry for him..." John drawled.

 

Sherlock shot him a reproachful look.

 

"A sentiment that's entirely wasted on him." He paused a moment. "At any rate, Mycroft is used to getting me out of all sorts of binds - no matter the cost or the effort, and generally without even bargaining. It would be unbearable for him to have the _Holmes_ name sullied by my actions," he concluded with a derisive grimace. "He would have paid whatever you demanded without batting an eye. Unless... you'd threatened to kill me." He let that thought hang in the air for a moment. "I'm afraid you would have left empty-handed in that case."

 

John stared into the distance, lost in thought. "It was your brother you were hiding from this whole time then," he remarked with sudden insight.

 

"Yes," Sherlock said quietly.

 

"Why? Why are you so afraid of him?"

 

"I had - and have - my reasons."

 

"Sherlock! That's not an answer."

 

Sherlock bit his lower lip. "There's too much history between us. He never left me alone. Not even after I officially took my mother's name. Not even then. Even though he promised. He..." Sherlock's voice trembled. "He always made sure that I … He put me in one rehab facility after another. He..." Sherlock shook his head. "He hates me. And I never wanted - ever - to have anything to do with him again. I broke out of the last place. Under cover of darkness, so to speak. I hid where he'd never find me - in fact, he didn't find me - on the streets. And that's where Irene picked me up one day, and … you know the rest."

 

John took a deep breath. "Is that all?"

 

"Yes," Sherlock lied, adding to himself _, 'You don't need to know any more that that.'_

 

The first time Mycroft had stuck his nose in Sherlock's business was bad enough, but that was nothing compared to the second and third times...

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_"Sherlock?!" Mycroft's voice drifted up the stairs and through the closed door to Sherlock's room. Sherlock was home from university for the Christmas holidays. He wasn't quite sure why, himself._

_"Yes!" Sherlock yelled back. "I'll be right there."_

_"What are you doing in there so long?" Mycroft called and opened Sherlock's door without knocking. "Mummy's already waiting in..." The rest of his words froze in his throat._

_Sherlock was frozen as well, unable to move a muscle. He was just counting his stock of cocaine, and the unmistakable packets lay right there on the table for Mycroft to see. Mycroft had never come into his room like that before. He always knocked. Always. And even then, he only came in after receiving permission, or continued shouting at him through the closed door. For that reason, Sherlock had thought he was safe._

_"What is that?" Mycroft posed the stupidest question that could be asked in the situation, and Sherlock's quick tongue rose to the occasion._

_"I believe you know exactly what this is," he replied impertinently. "Did you really think I'd make it through spending Christmas with you without resorting to drugs?"_

_"How long has this been going on?" Mycroft asked in a cold, cutting voice._

_Sherlock just shrugged. "That's none of your bloody business," he answered in a friendly manner._

_"You're already high," Mycroft remarked hollowly._

_"Yes, I am," Sherlock said, his voice laced with cheer. "Did you really think I'd live through an evening at the ballet with you and Mama Sylvia without being completely wasted? Ballet." He snorted in scorn. "And it's the Nutcracker on top of everything else. Of course."_

_"It is Christmas after all," Mycroft retorted with a sour moue. "Fine. There's nothing to be done about your current state. Come along then. Mummy's been waiting down in the hall this whole time."_

_Sherlock's eyes widened._

_"I still have to go?!"_

_"Of course," Mycroft said smoothly, adjusting his cufflinks. "But tomorrow... tomorrow I shall accompany you to Dr Pelham and you will request that he refer you to a rehabilitation facility."_

_"I'll do nothing of the sort," Sherlock replied firmly._

_A sickly-sweet smile curled the corners of Mycroft's mouth. "Your choice. But I was under the impression that you would prefer to continue your studies... and I don't believe I shall continue to finance them."_

_Sherlock ground his teeth. "That's blackmail!" he growled. He felt his hands and lips grow cold in the face of the threat, despite his altered state._

_Mycroft clicked his tongue. "Such a naughty word. I'll explain your absence to Mummy by saying you're taking a spontaneous holiday with friends. She doesn't need to know that you don't actually have any friends."_

_"And where are your admiring masses?" Sherlock shot back maliciously. "I don't see them anywhere."_

_Mycroft's smile disappeared, only to be replaced by an icy glare. "You'll go with me to Dr Pelham tomorrow or you'll have to deal with the consequences yourself."_

_In the end, Sherlock bowed to his brother's will, requested that Dr Pelham refer him to a treatment centre, and followed through by actually going. He didn't have any physical symptoms of withdrawal, so it wasn't that bad - given the circumstances. It was just the psychotherapy that he didn't like. But fortunately, he was intelligent and well-read enough to be able to tell the therapists exactly what they wanted to hear. After two weeks, he'd had enough, though, so he signed himself out and left on his own recognisance. He went back to the university where he was registered at the time and resumed all of his many studies - and his cocaine habit._

_Barely nine months later, there was a knock at the door of the tiny flat Sherlock had taken in one of the student dormitories. Unfortunately, he'd had to transfer to another university in another city because he'd called one of his professors an idiot and then been picked up by the police, drunk to the gills. Mycroft had fixed everything for him - amazingly, without a single remark - and found him another university that was willing to take him._

_Sherlock was lying on his bed, reading a treatise on Aristotle, and didn't suspect anything, which is why he simply called out, "Come in!" When he saw his brother's figure enter, however, he sprang up from his bed._

_"What are you doing here?" he hissed, ready for a fight, just as two rather large men came through the door. Sherlock's body tensed. "What's going on?" he asked, although he already had an idea when, on a signal from Mycroft, the two men began opening all of his drawers and cupboards and searching through them._

_"A few of your classmates were kind enough to keep an eye on you - in return for a small financial contribution from me," Mycroft remarked smoothly, a disgusting grin on his face. "News has reached me that, once again, you're..."_

_"Here, sir," one of the men called to him, holding up the case with Sherlock's needles in one hand. In his other hand were several small baggies containing white powder._

_Mycroft sighed heavily. "Perhaps the clinic I've picked out for you this time will be more successful."_

_"I'm not going to another clinic," Sherlock said roughly, trying to moisten his dry lips with his tongue._

_A superior smile lit up Mycroft's face. "I've taken care of just such an eventuality. I have here a consent form … signed by you. Dr Pelham was pleasantly cooperative."_

_Sherlock's heart beat slow and heavy in his chest. This time, it wasn't just his hands and lips that felt the chill; the icy coldness crept through his entire body._

_"That's a forgery," he croaked in a hoarse voice, even though he knew that any protest would be useless. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the two men coming ever closer. They'd obey Mycroft blindly, that much was clear._

_"It will be difficult for you to prove that … my dear brother," Mycroft replied glibly. "Will you come voluntarily - or will you insist on making a scene for the entire campus?"_

_Sherlock had never felt so powerless, so helpless, in his entire life - at least not when it came to dealing with his brother. He had no chance against two opponents at once, even though he hadn't been neglecting his baritsu training. But that wasn't even his primary concern at the moment. He was still up for a fight even if it was clear from the outset that he would lose. More important was the question of whether he wanted to make a scene. Did he want to come back here afterwards? He did, actually … the professors weren't completely hopeless and the other students were also... Wait. What had Mycroft said? Some of his classmates had taken money from Mycroft in return for spying on him? Without giving it any further thought, he whirled around and delivered a well-placed kick to the stomach of the first man before he slammed his fist into the second man’s throat._

_Three weeks later, his injuries were more or less healed up, and he signed himself out of that clinic as well without anyone trying to stop him. No sooner was he standing on the street looking for a taxi, however, than his mobile rang. Sherlock blinked down at the screen with a frown. Mycroft._

_He pushed a button and accepted the call._

_"WHAT?!" he shouted into the phone._

_"I just wanted to let you know that I've had your things brought home for you and I'm working on getting you into another university. I also wanted to save you the trouble of having to search for your ID and bank card."_

_"Why? What about them?" Sherlock asked, even as the now familiar - and still horrifying - chill crept into his limbs._

_"Your papers are with me. And regarding your financial liquidity... I will continue to cover all of your costs, but I've decided it would be more beneficial to your health for you not to have any cash at your disposal. You'll find a credit card in your wallet that you can use to take care of all of your needs. The account is under my name, and I will receive all of the receipts and bills. And now do have a nice day, Sherlock."_

_Sherlock stood there on the street for a very long time, the phone still pressed to his ear even though Mycroft had already rung off. His body felt as if it were frozen. He was completely numb. The only thing he could feel was fear and helplessness to a degree he'd never thought possible. What was he supposed to do now?_

_Strangely, it never occurred to him to go to Mama Sylvia for help. Somehow, the whole thing had become an issue exclusively between himself and Mycroft._

_Not even a week had passed since he'd moved into his new dorm room before he came upon the idea of buying a stereo with Mycroft's credit card, only to sell it off again for half the price. The first hit he paid for that way was better than anything in the world. It was intoxicating and triumphal at the same time. In the following weeks, he bought and re-sold several more items that Mycroft might shake his head over but that were completely above suspicion. Sherlock never lacked for cash, in other words._

_Everything was going well until the day he made a slight miscalculation in his dosage, and was found unconscious by the police in a restaurant toilet, the needle still in the crook of his elbow. He came to as soon as the police officer tried to help him, but that couldn't save him from a trip to the police station, as he'd just purchased a large quantity of cocaine from a dealer and thus had a not insubstantial amount on him._

_After his personal details had been recorded and he'd declined treatment by a doctor, he sat in one of the cells and brooded darkly. He hoped very much that no one would inform Mycroft, but he also knew that fortune hadn't smiled on him very often in such matters. He went through all the worst-case scenarios in his head and came to the conclusion that the worst that could happen was that Mycroft would withdraw him from university and refuse to continue to support him financially. It wasn't exactly what he'd planned on, but he'd just have to find some kind of work. It wasn't the end of the world. Maybe Mycroft would finally get fed up with him and break off any contact. The thought caused something like hope to blossom in him, and so he was able to appear relatively cool and collected when Mycroft showed up in his cell a few hours after Sherlock's arrest._

_"I assume you're here to get me out," Sherlock said calmly._

_Mycroft looked at the floor, which was so atypical for him that Sherlock's fingers started to twitch nervously._

_"You might say that," Mycroft finally answered._

_"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked - his suspicions growing._

_"I mean that... you're apparently no longer able to make reasonable decisions regarding your life anymore," Mycroft explained somberly. "I am taking you out of this charming place, but you're going to a sanatorium of my choosing and you won't leave until you've learned to behave like a rational, mature adult."_

_Sherlock shook his head wordlessly. That didn't sound good. That sounded very much not good, much too much like an asylum and not at all like treatment for withdrawal._

_"Forget it," he stated, his voice raw._

_Mycroft gave his brother a flat stare that said clearly he'd been expecting just such a reaction. He stepped aside, revealing two heavyset men in white t-shirts and trousers. One of them held a dirty white bundle of cloth in one hand._

_Sherlock's eyes widened in alarm as he realised that the white bundle was a strait jacket._

_"No," he whispered, shaking his head._

_"These gentlemen are employees of the sanatorium in question and are fully capable of and accustomed to handling … difficult situations," said Mycroft. "It's up to you... voluntarily... or..."_

_"No," Sherlock repeated softly, but then he gave in to his horror and anger and screamed: "NO! NEVER!"_

_"I'm afraid you haven't left me any other choice," Mycroft remarked with a sigh. He nodded to the two orderlies, who promptly stepped forward._

_Despite Sherlock's desperate attempt at resisting, the two men succeeded in overcoming him and getting him into the strait jacket. Once the last buckle was in place, Sherlock reacted like a man gone mad, and the attendants had to put everything they had into stopping him from attacking his brother._

_"YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO ME!" Sherlock screamed as if no longer in his right mind. "I'M NOT GOING TO THAT MENTAL HOSPITAL! YOU HAVE NO RIGHT!"_

_"Frothing at the mouth, Sherlock?" Mycroft said, unmoved. "A fanciful addition to your repertoire, truly. However, I must tell you it has no effect on me - at most it confirms my decision to have you committed. Which I have every right to do, by the by."_

_"If you're going to wave another forgery under my nose..." Sherlock ranted._

_"Regrets, dear brother," Mycroft interrupted him with a self-satisfied smirk. "This document is genuine." He pulled out a piece of paper from the inner breast pocket of his jacket and held it out so Sherlock could read it._

_Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he tried to make out what it said. Once he had, he turned as white as a sheet. "Incompetent?" he whispered, horrified. "You... you've had me declared mentally incompetent?"_

_"It's for your own good," Mycroft insisted. "As your legal guardian, I can..."_

_Sherlock's throat closed off. "You're my legal guardian?" he rasped. "You?"_

_"Who else?" Mycroft retorted coldly._

_"Mama Sylvia..." Sherlock replied weakly, even as he realised it was too late now. Much too late._

_Mycroft shook his head. "Out of the question. Mummy must be spared this indignity at all costs. Even if I am forced to lie to her. It would break her heart otherwise."_

_Her heart - Sherlock doubted that Mama Sylvia even possessed such an organ. He, however, felt his own heart die at that very moment._

_"I'm not going to that sanatorium," he whispered, horrified to realise how close he was to tears._

_Mycroft turned his back on him and left the cell._

_"Take him," he ordered the attendants before he left entirely._

_It took Sherlock two months to escape the sanatorium. Fortunately, it wasn't a mental hospital after all - despite what Sherlock had thought - but rather a very exclusive private clinic with security measures that any prison would have been proud of. Nevertheless, Sherlock was able to find a loophole._

_When he brushed the kitchen scraps he'd hidden amongst from his coat and listened to the sounds of traffic coming from the nearby street, he decided never again to fall into Mycroft's clutches. No matter what it cost._

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

"And that's really all this time?" John pressed.

 

"Yes, of course," Sherlock lied once again. Now that he'd started … he had to propagate the lie. "Why do you ask?"

 

"Oh - just this thing where I don't want to end up sitting there like some idiot again while your brother shakes another ace out of his sleeve," John replied conversationally.

 

"What did he tell you?" Sherlock wanted to know. It was a rather obvious question, yes, but Sherlock had to know what was going on. He'd tiptoed around the question long enough without John revealing anything of importance.

 

"Nothing," John answered. "Nothing at all. Aside from the fact that you're his brother. And that was plenty, let me tell you."

 

Sherlock nodded and considered feverishly whether Mycroft would ever tell John that he was his legal guardian. Would he gain any kind of advantage? What would happen? Mycroft could demand John give him back... but that would make John angry. Hopefully. And if there was one thing Mycroft didn't need during his term as mayor, it was an angry mob boss. So that option was out.

 

Maybe he should come clean and tell John the truth. It was almost physically painful for him to lie to John. He didn't feel good about it at all. Little half-truths were fine - and it was easy for him to omit something entirely too... but to flat out lie when posed a direct question? That was both difficult and extremely ungrateful on his part. After everything that John had done for him already, after all the compromises he'd made for him. Sherlock was deeply ashamed. But there was simply no reasonable alternative.

 

Sherlock felt deeply dishonoured and debased by the incompetency ruling. He was no longer his own man … he was hardly any better than a serf. He had no papers and could neither leave the country nor take on a respectable job. All of that was denied him … or at least dependent upon Mycroft's goodwill.

 

If he told John everything, John would kick him out of the house for sure. Sherlock was one hundred percent certain of that. What crime lord would suffer someone at his side who was under the thumb of his opponent?

 

It was a safe bet that John would assume Sherlock was spying for Mycroft. Mycroft certainly had enough means at his disposal to apply pressure on Sherlock. John couldn't know that Sherlock would rather cut off his own hand - or even let himself be locked up in a more or less disreputable sanatorium again - before he did anything that might harm John.

 

How could he know, after all?

 

Sherlock hadn't had any opportunity to prove his loyalty. How could he have... he'd been living in fear of Mycroft finding a way to get his hands on Sherlock again the second he left the safe haven of John's property, all in the name of preventing him from bringing further shame on the Holmes family.

 

Sherlock wanted to stay with John. No matter what it took. Even if he had to present John with one lie after another.

 

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock finally said with a somewhat crooked grin.

 

John gave him an odd look. Then he stood up and held out a hand to Sherlock.

 

"Come on."

 

"Where?"

 

"To the bedroom."

 

Sherlock swallowed. "Please..." he whispered softly. "No more slaps."

 

John shook his head, smiling gently. "I'm not going to punish you, Sherlock. I have something else entirely in mind." Then another thought occurred to him. "Where's Mike, anyway?"

 

"He went home. To his wife. For dinner," Sherlock answered, somewhat disconnected. He was too confused to form more eloquent sentences. "What are you going to do with me?"

 

John stroked Sherlock's cheek tenderly with his hand.

 

"You'll find out soon enough..."

 

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

**_To be continued..._ **

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

<http://lorelei-lee.tumblr.com/post/123544523344/teaser-for-chapter-24-deflowered-directors>

 

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're halfway through!!! YAY!!!


	25. Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation by the most fabulous [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/profile)

**Chapter 25: Trust**

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock finally said with a somewhat crooked grin.

 

John gave him an odd look. Then he stood up and held out a hand to Sherlock.

 

"Come on."

 

"Where?"

 

"To the bedroom."

 

Sherlock swallowed. "Please..." he whispered softly. "No more slaps."

 

John shook his head, smiling gently. "I'm not going to punish you, Sherlock. I have something else entirely in mind." Then another thought occurred to him. "Where's Mike, anyway?"

 

"He went home. To his wife. For dinner," Sherlock answered, somewhat disconnected. He was too confused to form more eloquent sentences. "What are you going to do with me?"

 

John stroked Sherlock's cheek tenderly with his hand.

 

"You'll find out soon enough..."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Once they got to the bedroom, John didn't waste any time pressing a hungry kiss onto Sherlock's mouth, which opened in surprise. It was more a bite than a kiss, and John grabbed him roughly at the nape of his neck, shimmied him backwards against the bed and shoved him so that he fell supine onto the mattress.

 

Sherlock stared at John for a moment, his eyes widened, and then John was on top of him, tearing his shirt open, undoing his trousers and yanking them down in a single motion. It wasn't an effect of impatient, urgent passion - even though there was already an impressive erection showing beneath John's trousers - it seemed to Sherlock more like the product of some pent-up, angry arousal.

 

John stood up abruptly.

 

"Trousers. Shoes. Off," he commanded in a hard voice.

 

Sherlock hurried to comply with his wish, only to find that his fingers were unable to untie the knots in his laces. John had already fetched the Vaseline from the nightstand in the meantime, and turned back to him. Impatient, aggravated, and a little bit cowed by John's odd behaviour, Sherlock simply broke one shoelace off and tugged at the other shoe until he could get it off without undoing the laces. He stood up, pulled his trousers and pants down over his hips with one hand and let them both fall to the floor. His heart was pounding in a quick staccato, and he had to almost violently suppress the urge to cover his nakedness (or, more specifically: his half-hard erection) with his hands in shame.

 

John's gaze wasn't filled with anger as it wandered slowly down Sherlock's body, making him shiver. But it also wasn't as affectionate or awestruck as it had been several times in the past. There was a certain calculating coldness in those deep blue eyes. Sherlock's hands twitched toward his shirt, which still hung open from his shoulders, and he was about to take it off when John stopped him.

 

"Leave it on... I like it like that."

 

John's voice - in contrast to his eyes - was warm and familiar, and the image arose in Sherlock's mind of the time at Irene's place, when John had told him to keep his shirt on too.

 

How long ago was that? Nine or ten months? But then John moved closer to him with that cold, tooth-baring smile, and Sherlock's brain refused to cooperate any further.

 

"On your back. Legs up and apart," John ordered him, nodding briefly toward the bed.

 

Sherlock scrabbled up onto it, his heart pounding and his erection throbbing, and got into the required position. He used to be so good divining the desires and plans of his clients - but John had been a mystery to him from the beginning. It was true that he'd become better at identifying John's needs and intentions over the past few weeks, but today... today he was at a loss. He had no idea what John was going to do with him. And maybe it was exactly that uncertainty that made him tingle with lust like this. Despite everything, though, it was unpleasant not knowing where he stood with John this time. The same uncertainty, the effect of not knowing what to expect, that had been so exciting and erotic before was now - although still arousing - tempered by a certain disquiet. Sherlock wondered if it were due to the increased familiarity between them which had marked their interactions in the past few weeks that he felt differently now.

 

He was a little disappointed when John crouched - still dressed - between his splayed legs, opened his trousers and pushed them down along with his underwear, but only far enough to free his stiff member. John hadn't done this in a while. More recently, he'd almost always disrobed entirely. Sherlock had become so used to the feeling of John's bare skin that it felt like a punishment now. A punishment? Was that the reason for John's unusual behaviour?

 

 _I'm still pissed off at you..._ The words echoed in Sherlock's head. But then John had caressed his cheek so lovingly... Sherlock didn't know what to make of these mixed signals anymore.

 

When Sherlock felt two Vaseline-slickened fingers at his hole, he flinched. He'd been so absorbed in his thoughts that he hadn't noticed John continuing with his preparations. John pushed his fingers into Sherlock's body a bit too fast and rough, and Sherlock flinched again before forcing himself to relax. He didn't need much prep these days anyway to get ready for John. John had been with Sherlock so often now that Sherlock generally only needed a bit of stretching in order to easily accommodate John's erect penis. Today was no different. Two fingers and just a few minutes sufficed to loosen Sherlock's muscles.

 

John didn't say anything the entire time. The only sound was his heavy breathing. There was something so surreal about the silence that not even Sherlock dared to make a sound. All he did was gulp for air when John suddenly withdrew his fingers, and Sherlock felt the hot pressure of the head of John's penis on his arse instead. John simply drove in without any finesse or consideration. Buried himself to the hilt in Sherlock's pliant opening and fucked him hard, fast, and deep, until Sherlock's body betrayed him and he groaned with his growing arousal, despite all his misgivings. He would have liked to wrap his arms around John, pull him closer, but John was still crouched between his legs and looked so focused on what he was doing that Sherlock decided not to risk it.

 

John - usually such an attentive lover - took him today with a ruthlessness that both excited and disturbed Sherlock. His own penis was completely engorged by now and bounced against his taut abdomen in time with John's thrusts. John would normally have done something with it by now, but today he didn't lift a finger or say a single word. And all of a sudden, Sherlock understood.

 

This wasn't for him.

 

This was for John.

 

John, who was taking what he wanted for _once_ , no quarter given.

 

John, who was thinking only of himself for _once_.

 

John, who was just using Sherlock this _one time_.

 

It was John's way of saying: _I'm still pissed off at you. And this is your chance to make up for it._

 

Sherlock didn't let the chance go unused. He arched toward John, welcomed him unconditionally into his body, let him work off steam, and tried to be as good to him as he could at the moment.

 

It was Sherlock's way of saying: _I'm sorry. I'm so terribly sorry._

 

Sherlock could see something change in John's expression as it softened with surprise and contentment.

 

One last series of deep, hard thrusts - Sherlock felt the familiar pulsing sensation deep inside - and John came with a throaty groan. Several long moments passed before John pulled out. He climbed off the bed and hastily pulled his clothes up.

 

"Squeeze your arse together," was all John said before he went to the cupboard and took out Sherlock's favourite plug.

 

Sherlock wasn't entirely able to hold back a lust-filled moan. The plug was dark blue, more than wide enough, and was decorated with several ridges that Sherlock knew would drive his prostate - and him - mad.

 

When John turned back to Sherlock, his face was relaxed and a smile flitted across his narrow lips. He went back to Sherlock, knelt on the bed, and stroked Sherlock's hair until his hand rested on Sherlock's neck. Then he lifted Sherlock's head a bit, breathed out a _'thank you'_ against his lips, and kissed him lightly.

 

Even as Sherlock still clung to the fleeting kiss, John inserted the hand with the plug between Sherlock's thighs.

 

"Lie back down," John murmured softly, working the plug into Sherlock's distended opening, which closed greedily around the thick piece of rubber, virtually sucking it in deeper and deeper until only the flat grip at the end was visible.

 

Sherlock groaned and stretched his body contentedly. He felt so full... so good … and knowing that John's ejaculate was still inside him was like an aphrodisiac. He sent John an indecent look from his half-lidded eyes.

 

"I hope you're not done with me," he said enticingly, at the same time issuing John a challenge.

 

"Not by a long shot," John answered with a lascivious grin. "I'll be right back," he said and stood up.

 

"Hey! Where are you..."

 

"I said I'll be right back," John repeated with tempered sternness and left the bedroom.

 

Sherlock didn't have to wait very long before John returned, carrying the small, insulated ice bucket from the bar.

 

Sherlock bit his lower lip. He had a pretty good idea what was coming, and John didn't disappoint him.

 

After directing his gaze at Sherlock's plump erection with a look that was both salacious and reproving, John took out a metal cock ring from the pocket of his trousers. Sherlock swallowed hard. His throat was suddenly dry with arousal. That was the smallest cock ring John owned... and although it was quite tight, it wasn't impossible to ejaculate with it on. Sherlock had proven that on more than one occasion. But whenever John used that cock ring, it meant he wanted to take his time. It looked like this was going to be a long night...

 

"I'm afraid..." John drawled, "...as sorry as I am to say it... before I can get this ring on you, I'm going to have to undertake certain measures."

 

"You're not the least bit sorry," Sherlock hissed, goading him.

 

John grinned. "Anything's possible." He sat down on the bed, reached into the ice bucket, and came up with four ice cubes. "Ready?" he asked, faintly teasing.

 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "What if I say no?"

 

"Cheeky bastard," John scolded him in the same way other people might say _'darling'_ or some other term of endearment. Sherlock sighed in contentment. Without any further warning, John pressed the ice cubes firmly down on Sherlock's hot erection. Sherlock gasped for air and his upper body shot upright.

 

"Fuck! That's COLD!"

 

"You don't say," John answered dryly, pressing down a bit harder on Sherlock's shrivelling genitals.

 

It took a while, but finally Sherlock's penis was small enough for John to fit the cock ring around it. Sherlock groaned with relief when he felt John's hands without the ice in them. Although they were still cold, they were more gentle and not as hard and unyielding as the square-edged ice cubes. The plug had turned out to be counterproductive to the entire action, as every time Sherlock jerked from the cold, his muscles cramped down around the rounded shape in his rectum, stimulating it anew and causing his penis to swell again. Sherlock would have bet good money, however, that John knew full well what was going on, and had proceeded in that order precisely for that reason. Even now, his penis was getting hard again, which was both bliss and torture because he knew that an orgasm was still a very long way off.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Sherlock had often thought it would be a good idea to use John's bedposts in a very particular way, and tonight his wish was being fulfilled. He stood at the foot of the bed with his arms and legs apart, his back facing out toward the room and his wrists and ankles enclosed in broad leather cuffs. The cuffs were attached to ropes that John had knotted to the tops and bottoms of the bedposts before getting Sherlock's beloved riding crop out of his walk-in closet.

 

Perhaps half an hour had elapsed since then, and Sherlock longed to see the pattern the riding crop had left on his backside. Quite in contrast to his usual procedure, John hadn't done much more than warm up Sherlock's skin in a perfunctory manner by means of a few slaps with his bare hand, and for that reason, Sherlock was certain that there must now be red streaks showing on his skin.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw John pull his arm back in preparation to strike again, and then another blow hit him on the rear. Sherlock's muscles twitched, squeezing the plug inside his body, and pulled a husky groan from Sherlock's throat. The blow had been perfect. Perfectly placed - right on the tender spot between buttocks and thigh. Perfectly delivered - weak enough to feel good but strong enough to hurt. John kept varying the strength of his strokes … one time as soft as a caress and then so hard that the sound of the blow virtually exploded in Sherlock's ears and brought tears to his eyes.

 

John pulled his arm back again - and once again, it was a perfect strike. Sherlock ran his tongue over his dry lips and tried to moisten his throat with convulsive swallows. In vain. Just like the desperate twitching of his erection, which hadn't flagged once the whole time but had remained jutting away from his body, red, fat, and dripping.

 

The riding crop glided across his thigh in a caress, over his hips, and forward to his genitals. Sherlock gasped softly and held his breath. Was John going to hit him there? His heart raced like mad at the thought and a shiver ran down his back. Fear and lust ran together in his head until he couldn't think straight anymore.

 

The touch of a hand tore him away from the licentious fog and made him flinch.

 

John's hand on his leg.

 

John's hand, following the path of the riding crop. Thigh - hip - groin - and ...

 

Sherlock's breath rattled in his throat.

 

John's index finger on his hypersensitive glans.

 

Sherlock tore his eyes open. When had he even closed them? He didn't know. But that... that was really John's finger on his erection, smearing the pre-come around that was seeping out of the tiny opening unchecked and in ever greater quantities due to the additional stimulation. Sherlock bit down on his lower lip to suppress a whimper.

 

"You little slut," John rebuked him with that fiendish smile that made Sherlock's knees go weak every time. Then he held his dampened fingers in front of Sherlock's face. No additional order was necessary. Sherlock greedily welcomed the fingers into his mouth and sucked on them with enthusiasm.

 

John's eyes went glassy and his pupils darkened with desire.

 

"You really enjoy that, don't you?" John growled at him.

 

"Don't ask stupid questions," Sherlock mumbled around the fingers in his mouth.

 

John's eyes flashed dangerously. "Still so insolent..." he noted, drawing the words out. "I must have been too nice to you. Much too nice. I think we need to try a different tack now."

 

Sherlock licked the fingers one last time before pulling back with an obscene slurp, moving as if in slow motion.

 

"What are you waiting for?" he asked provocatively.

 

It was obvious that John was struggling to hold back a smile. "Would it actually kill you, once - just once in your life - to say, _'Yes, please'_?"

 

"I don't know," Sherlock quipped promptly. "I've never tried. The risk seemed too great."

 

A hard kiss and a probing tongue put an end to the possibility of any further responses from Sherlock. When John let go of him, Sherlock gasped for air. John was also panting quietly.

 

"Seems to be the only way to make you shut up." He followed the path of Sherlock's lecherous look and grinned. "Yeah - I know. That … or a blowjob. But you're going to have to do without that today." He stretched up a bit so he could feel Sherlock's palms, checking the circulation, then opened the carabiners on the leather cuffs where they were attached to the loops of rope and rubbed Sherlock's hands briskly between his own palms.

 

"No reason to pout," John commented on seeing Sherlock's expression. "We'll continue in just a moment." He also released the bindings on Sherlock's ankles, turned him around, and pushed him gently down onto the edge of the mattress. "Sit down a sec." He wiped Sherlock's sweaty forehead with the back of his hand and pressed the tips of his fingers carefully against Sherlock's throat to feel his pulse.

 

Sherlock took John's hand away from his throat and breathed a soft kiss onto the palm. He could feel John's shiver. Then he said quietly, "I'm fine." He held John's hand against his cheek, nuzzled into the touch, and exhaled a very contented sigh. His eyes fell shut.

 

"And your bottom?" he heard John ask. "How about sitting?"

 

"Oh yes," Sherlock admitted cheerfully. "It burns like hell." John's quiet laugh rippled across Sherlock's body like a lover's caress. A glass was held to his lips.

 

"Drink," John whispered to him.

 

Sherlock had completely forgotten how thirsty he was, but now the need reasserted itself, and he drank the proffered water in large, greedy gulps.

 

"Very good," John praised him, pressed a light kiss to his forehead and then tapped him on the shoulder. "Get up - there's more. I'm a long way from being finished with you."

 

John put Sherlock back in the same position as before, with the single difference being that he was facing the main part of the room rather than the bed. John let the riding crop whistle through the air a few times before he turned to Sherlock with a tooth-baring grin.

 

"I hope you didn't think I'd forgot about your front?" John queried innocently.

 

Sherlock swallowed, anticipating what was coming, and watched with his eyes flung wide as John pulled his arm back. It was impossible to guess where the blow would land. Thigh, chest, stomach - or...

 

A burning pain flared up like a spurt of fire on his left thigh. Sherlock didn't have any time to recover before the next stroke came down. He sucked air in between his teeth, hissing, before John raised the riding crop again.

 

Sherlock was used to being hit on his back, but the front side of his body had never been exposed to a whip or crop with the same frequency. In addition to the physical pain, there was the additional suspense and fear of knowing that the next blow could miss and end up hitting more sensitive parts of his body. Sherlock broke out in a cold sweat. He knew, of course, how skilled and accurate John was with the riding crop, but every move awakened primitive, very male fears in Sherlock, causing his muscles to tense even further. The relief when a blow landed on his chest or thigh - and nowhere else - blended with the cutting pain left by the riding crop's kiss and the stimulation from the plug until Sherlock didn't know whether he'd be happy when it was all over, or whether he'd curse John for ever stopping.

 

Ecstasy and pain raged through his body, careening him from one extreme to the other until he thought it couldn't possibly get any worse - and it couldn't possibly get any better. And right then, the blows stopped. John interrupted his rhythm and stepped in close to Sherlock, holding a thin, narrow scarf made of dark blue silk in one hand.

 

"You are amazing," John said with a warm smile in curious contrast to the obvious bulge in his trousers, his eyes bright and flashing. He wiped the sticky, sweaty strands of hair off Sherlock's forehead and ran his thumb tenderly over Sherlock's parched lips. "Just a little more... then... it will be time," he said rather cryptically, but Sherlock was too wrapped up with himself, with the sensations of pain, lust, and arousal wracking his body, to ask John what he meant by that. Talking … asking... thinking... it all required a concerted effort that Sherlock would rather employ so as not to let himself hang too heavily in his bonds, and to continue squeezing his muscles pleasurably around the plug.

 

"You can take it, can't you?" John asked, patting Sherlock lightly on the cheek in order to gain his attention. "You can take it... for me... because I want you to..."

 

"For you, John," Sherlock whispered throatily. "Just for you..."

 

"You've never surrendered yourself to anyone else the way you have to me," John said quietly yet urgently, almost feverishly.

 

Sherlock met his eye with a hard, burning look. "Just you, John... just you..." Sherlock said so softly it almost couldn't be heard.

 

John's eyes shone wetly for one traitorous moment, but then they were filled with a naked, greedy flame once again. Even then, John's motions were still controlled and well considered. He was still in charge, both of himself and of the situation. He carefully felt Sherlock's throat for his pulse, checking the circulation.

 

"I'm going to cover your eyes now," he announced, and Sherlock gave his consent with a faint nod of his head.

 

The dark silk wrapped around his head like a gentle breeze, robbing him of his sight. His heart rate increased almost immediately, and a wave of panic rolled through his brain. Hadn't he just thought it couldn't possibly get any worse? How could he have been so wrong? He turned his head from one side to the other with frantic motions. Where was John? Why couldn't he hear him?

 

"John?" he called, his voice cracking and coming out high and bright, like that of a frightened child.

 

"Shhhhh," John said right next to him, touching his hip with one hand. It was completely ridiculous how quickly Sherlock relaxed in the wake of that touch, that brief affirmation. "You're doing fantastic. Just a little more. I promise. Just a couple more blows... for me, Sherlock... can you do it?"

 

Sherlock nodded firmly, as he didn't trust his voice at this point. Yes. For John.

 

"Good," he heard John say in a gentle voice. "Very good. It's going to be worth it for you."

 

The first blows were soft, almost like caresses, like a whisper against his skin, and Sherlock was able to relax a bit better. After a while, his senses were heightened and he heard the hiss of the crop, felt the motion of the air before the blow landed, heating and stretching his skin and his nerves sent the report of the stimulation to his brain. His arousal continued to increase, his hard cock throbbed in time with John's strokes and the explosions of pain in his skin. Sherlock could tell that John was only using about half his strength anymore when he pulled back and hit, but the silky blue darkness before his eyelids intensified and multiplied every emotion, every sensation, until Sherlock cried out with every hit just in order to let off the built-up tension.

 

The blows came closer and closer to his lower abdomen and his sensitive erection. He felt powerless and fragile and so horribly mixed up inside. Like the spring of a clockwork that had been wound too tightly and was about to break or over-rotate.

 

Was John going to hit him there? Would he?

 

Sherlock's body tensed and cramped. His head bowed forward, his back arched, his bonds pulled tight and pressed against his wrists. He felt his thighs begin to tremble.

 

John stopped.

 

No more blows.

 

No more sounds.

 

Only heavy breathing. Panting. From whom? John? Or was that he himself?

 

Sherlock's lips parted, but he had no strength left to scream. His throat felt like it was closed off.

 

Waiting. Hoping. But for what?

 

Saliva dripped from his open mouth, flowed down thickly over his chin.

 

His over-stimulated prostate continued to send signals of arousal out to his entire body, which quaked helplessly in its bonds. His erection twitched. His testicles had pulled up tight against his body, yet still hung there completely without protection between his splayed legs.

 

Then... a gathering of self that was virtually audible, the wasp-like hum of the crop, the turbulence of the air, the slapping sound of the hit.

 

"JOHN!"

 

A scream, a sob - half maddening relief, half shooting pain. Tears shot into his eyes, making the silk damp and hot. A feeling like burning coals spread out from between his legs. Cold sweat ran down his back. Had that actually been a blow or just a tap? Sherlock didn't know, but he suspected he was going to feel the echo of it in his balls for quite a while. But all of that paled in comparison to the single pressing desire, the one urgent need...

 

"Let me come... please, John..." he wheezed. "Let me..."

 

"Not yet," John said. Flat. Controlled.

 

Sherlock started to sob uncontrollably. It was too much. It was all too much. He couldn't take it any longer.

 

He didn't hear the buzz, didn't feel the draught, and so the blow to his painfully hard penis hit him completely unprepared. An excruciating throbbing, a lust-filled agony, unfulfilled ecstasy. He gasped desperately for air, not having the strength to cry out, not even to lift his head. The tears flowed freely down his cheeks. The silk clung wetly to his eyes.

 

"Please... John..." he begged hoarsely. "Let me come..."

 

"Soon," John whispered. "Soon... just a little longer. Patience."

 

A gentle voice, a gentle hand on his cheek … good... so good... John's footsteps moving away... a strange sound, one that he couldn't place in his current condition... the footsteps returned... a soft kiss on his cheek... fingers on the back of his head... the knot of his blindfold being undone... carefully... cautiously... and then the blindfold was slowly pulled away.

 

Sherlock's head still hung down, lacking any strength. The last few tears dripped from the end of his nose and his chin. Dry sobs shook his trembling frame.

 

"Open your eyes," John said.

 

What for? An unnecessary exertion.

 

Fingers in his hair...

 

"Please open your eyes now," John ordered with a bit more insistence.

 

It was difficult to lift his head, but Sherlock did it.

 

"Very good," John praised him, sounding so proud, so soft and warm that Sherlock made an extra effort and blinked. He opened his eyes slowly, meaning to turn his head to seek John's gaze, but the fingers in his hair held him back. "No... don't look at me," John said softly. "Look straight ahead."

 

Sherlock was too exhausted and worked up to argue or pose a question, so he simply did what John wanted. He directed his lethargic gaze forward and saw... himself.

 

The image in the mirror reflected his astonished, open-mouthed expression, and Sherlock realised what the odd noise had been about. John had moved the large mirror and placed it directly in front of him. Why would he do something like that? It was disgusting. _He_ was disgusting - especially in this state. Sweaty, sticky, his penis still obscenely swollen and red, his skin pasty... what was going on?

 

"Wait... something's still missing," John said, reaching between the cheeks of Sherlock's arse. With a practised move, he slowly removed the plug. Sherlock's muscles protested, wanting to keep the invader inside, but finally released it, and Sherlock sighed in relief. His relief didn't last long, however, as he realised to his mortification that John's semen was dripping out of him and running down his thighs. John placed one hand on Sherlock's hip. Sherlock felt that hand tremble, and once again he had the urge to look at John, wanting to know what this was all supposed to mean.

 

"No," John said gently. "Don't look at me. Look at yourself." John stood next to Sherlock and looked into the mirror with him. "What do you see? Tell me what you see."

 

Sherlock had eyes only for John, for his face, which he could have observed in that mirror forever. What he saw there took his breath away. Pride, tenderness, hunger, caring...

 

Just at that moment, Sherlock was able to see himself through John's eyes, to see himself for the first time the way John must always have seen him. He saw the chaotic pattern of red streaks scattered across his thighs and chest. He saw the nipples standing out from his pale skin, dark and hard. He saw the tear tracks on his cheeks and the reddened eyes. He saw the spit at the corners of his mouth and on his chin. He saw the traces of semen slithering down his legs. He saw the dishevelled curls sticking to his forehead. He saw his erection, so swollen that the veins stood out. He saw his body, still bound, his arms and legs pulled apart. He saw himself trembling and shaking. He saw how filthy he was. And he saw how much all of that excited John.

 

And although he looked used, debased, and miserable - and felt that way as well - he finally understood.

 

John saw in him devotion and desire, passion and strength, the ability to bear things, to go past limits, and to enjoy it... and suddenly he was able to see even deeper, past the red marks, past the tear tracks, past the milky semen on his skin...

 

"I'm beautiful," he whispered, both amazed and moved.

 

A gentle, contented, almost happy glow - one which he'd never seen before - entered John's eyes.

 

"You're gorgeous, in fact." Then he undressed and removed Sherlock's bindings.

 

Sherlock let him, even managing to maintain his stance on his own two shaky legs until John's strong arms wrapped around him, embraced him, held him close and carefully shifted him onto the bed.

 

He lay on his side and didn't rouse from his trance until he felt John's body behind him and John's fingers insinuating themselves between his legs. He listened to John's heavy breaths and heard a soft moan.

 

"May I?" John breathed into his ear, and Sherlock shivered with pleasure. He wasn't just being polite and it wasn't a rhetorical question. He was actually asking for permission.

 

Tears welled up in Sherlock's eyes again. But this time they came from a place of deep emotion.

 

"God - yes..." He choked down a sob and John kissed him hungrily on the nape of his neck.

 

"If you knew what you do to me..." John murmured roughly, entering him with two fingers.

 

Sherlock let out a soft, surprised cry. It felt so good. So right. John nestled in closer to him, and Sherlock felt John's hard, hot erection on his hip.

 

"I have a vague idea," Sherlock answered and felt John's lips as well as his muffled laughter against his back.

 

"Incorrigible," John whispered against his shoulder in an affectionate undertone, making goose pimples break out all over Sherlock's body. "Do you want to stay like this or get up on all fours?"

 

Sherlock shook his head vehemently.

 

"No - I … I want to see you." God, yes - he wanted to see John's eyes when he entered him, when he plunged deep inside, when he released inside him. Wanted to see that light in those deep blue eyes once again. That light and that happiness, for which - as unbelievable as it might sound - he was the cause. He … Sherlock Sigerson, who had never known happiness before in his life. He could barely comprehend that he was the reason for that glow … that he was responsible for that happiness. He wanted to see it. He _needed_ to see it to believe it.

 

"Sherlock... your back. You shouldn't lie on your back right now," John objected. "The sheets..."

 

"...are soft enough," Sherlock interjected firmly. "Please, John."

 

Another groan against his shoulder, a twist of the fingers in his arse... goose pimples.

 

"Don't say afterwards that I didn't warn you," John whispered in a gravelly voice, withdrew his fingers abruptly from Sherlock's stretched opening and rolled him onto his back.

 

Sherlock looked up into John's deep blue eyes with their huge, black pupils, and forgot everything else around him. The pulling and burning on his back and in his arse weren't important anymore. He spread his legs and ended up flinching. His skin had been stretched a little too much by the movement, and the pain flared up anew for a moment. Tears seeped out of the corners of his eyes, and he heard John curse hotly over him. Sherlock smiled slyly through the fading ache, and then pinched his own nipples until fresh tears ran down his cheeks and he was gasping for breath.

 

"My God... Sherlock... what are you doing to me..."

 

Sherlock squeezed his eyes together to get the last tears out and then held John's gaze.

 

"Don't make me wait any longer..." he whispered huskily.

 

John paused for a moment. Knelt between Sherlock's splayed legs, stroked the inside of his thighs with gentle fingers and shook his head in wondering amazement.

 

"Now, John!" Sherlock cried out impatiently. "Don't fall asleep, dammit!"

 

John laughed, caressed Sherlock's cheek, kissed the full, raw lips - still laughing - and lowered himself, comfortably heavy and warm, onto Sherlock. Then in a single, flowing motion, he thrust in. Sherlock didn't even notice the penetration until John was seated completely inside him, stretching him, filling him, and after what seemed like an eternity - as their kisses became wetter and more greedy - he started to fuck him with deep yet gentle strokes.

 

When Sherlock whimpered and sobbed with relief, John pushed himself up again and his movements became harder and faster... and then everything stopped completely.

 

An unsteady hand fondled Sherlock's unbearable hardness, and Sherlock, in his arousal, made noises that didn't have much humanity left in them.

 

"Feels like hot steel," John murmured half to himself. "My God, Sherlock... how did you stand it..."

 

 _For you... for you..._ the words echoed in Sherlock's head, but his voice failed in its duty.

 

"Would you rather do it yourself?" John asked. "I'm really afraid I'll hurt you. I shouldn't have left the ring on so long..."

 

"No!" Sherlock mobilised his last reserves of strength for the protest. "No... you do it. Let me come, John... Make me..."

 

Despite his misgivings, John didn't need to be asked twice. He wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's throbbing shaft.

 

From that point on, everything around Sherlock lost all sense of meaning. The friction of the sheets against his wounded back, the tautness of the skin on his buttocks, the pain in his nipples. None of that was important anymore. He only wanted John, only felt John, only registered John.

 

John's hand on his erection, stimulating him gently yet relentlessly, John's hard length which continued to go in and out of his body until he couldn't separate the hammering rhythm from the wild beating of his heart … until he fancied he could feel John's pulse in his most intimate place.

 

He let himself float along on that wave for a while, revelling one last time in the pain and the pleasure before the wave finally broke and shrouded everything in a blinding white light that threatened to suffocate him, and with one final shout he finally reached his climax - so long desired, so long postponed, held back so unbearably long - with a force that threatened to overwhelm him.

 

He felt John's hoarse cry more than he heard it, barely felt John's discharge inside him, still longed for even more release... everything in him continued to pulse, shook him, until he cried out again... weak, exhausted... his testicles continued to clench, his body continued to contract around John's deflating penis. A fresh surge of semen, both erotic and painful, flowed out of his erection, which was still hard.

 

"Are you still coming?" he vaguely heard John's voice. Did he sound worried? A little. Did he sound... aroused? Definitely. And then... before he could say or do anything... a tongue... cool, wet, rough... licking over his penis, and lips sucking gently on his glans.

 

"JOHN!"

 

One last jerk, the final throes, one more weak emission and then... strong arms wrapping around him, a warm, sweaty body nestling up against him, gentle kisses on his cheek, throat, neck, and shoulders, lips whispering against his skin, _"You're incredible..."_ and finally... relief, deliverance, and endless contentment.

 

When Sherlock woke up in the middle of the night, there was a blanket spread over both himself and John, and John was asleep beside him. The cock ring was gone, and instead one of John's arms lay possessively across Sherlock's stomach.

 

Sherlock lifted the arm and ghosted a kiss across the fingertips. No one had drawn the curtains or closed the blinds, and soft, blueish moonlight shone in through the windows. Sherlock turned onto his side to observe John. His body reminded him what he'd gone through - what he'd both suffered and enjoyed - just a few hours earlier, but it was nothing that a hot bath and a little ointment couldn't fix. Sherlock's movement was enough, however, to rouse John enough that he could speak.

 

"Don't go," he murmured blearily and groped for Sherlock in an uncoordinated way. He caught him by the shoulder and pulled him closer until Sherlock's head was resting on John's chest. "Stay."

 

Sherlock listened to John's calm, even heartbeat, telling him that John had already fallen back asleep, and whispered softly, "Forever, if you want."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Just a few days after their first conversation, John had Dave and Naresh pick up the mayor again and bring him to the same bungalow he was already acquainted with. He himself was driven there by Bridges, and arrived - intentionally - about fifteen minutes after Mycroft Holmes.

 

"You made me wait," Mycroft remarked coolly, with his back to the door - a very effective measure, and one which ruined John's entrance just a bit. The entire situation gave John such a strong sense of having been in the same position before that he was actually happy Mycroft's back was turned toward him. At least that gave him a moment to force the corners of his mouth back down from their smile. How could he ever have missed the fact that these two men grew up together? He must have been struck blind. But maybe those similarities only stuck out to him now that he knew what to look for.

 

"I'm a very busy man," John replied lightly, indicating that Dave and Naresh should wait outside the door.

 

Only once the two bodyguards had left the room did Mycroft deign to turn around.

 

"And what do you think _I_ am?" he sneered.

 

John clicked his tongue. "I'm afraid my good manners forbid me from answering that," he answered cheerfully and sat down in the same spot he'd taken the last time. He saw Mycroft glance toward the door and then check out the window. It was obvious that he expected John to have company with him... someone other than his chauffeur.

 

"So..." Mycroft began slowly. "Where is Sherlock?" He sounded both irritated and impatient.

 

John studied his fingernails indifferently. "Where he belongs. At my house."

 

A single dark eyebrow went up. "Oh, really?" Mycroft remarked with so much condescending arrogance that John's fingers twitched. But he overcame the almost overwhelming desire to wipe that fake, smart-alecky smile off the mayor's face with his fists.

 

"Yes," John replied simply. "Or did you think I'd toss him at your feet, all tied up with a red ribbon?" There was a calculated challenge in his eye, one which Mycroft appeared to understand, to go by his hesitation.

 

"Something like that..." Mycroft answered with a brand new expression displaying surprise and scepticism. "You're really going to keep him? In spite of everything?"

 

"Yes."

 

The shadow of a patronising smile returned to Mycroft's face. "Then I can only presume he didn't tell you everything."

 

John took a deep breath, as inconspicuously as possible. _He knew it_. So Sherlock hadn't really told him everything. The way in which Mycroft formulated his remark didn't allow for any other conclusion. He'd already suspected it but he hadn't had much of anything to go on until Sherlock apologised - without saying for what. But in spite of all his efforts, Sherlock still hadn't confided in him. At least not yet. John hadn't given up hope. But no matter what it was, no matter how much he was dying of curiosity - he wanted to hear it from Sherlock himself. Not from his pompous half-brother. And so John only had one option: to lie.

 

"Yes. He did," he returned with as little emotion and as much self-assurance as he could. Secretly, however, he hoped Mycroft wouldn't see through his bluff.

 

The scepticism in Mycroft's face mutated into an earnest, almost disbelieving frown. "You truly amaze me."

 

"Oh, really?" John tossed back Mycroft's earlier remark with obvious mockery.

 

Something like an indignant snort sounded from Mycroft's direction.

 

"Fine - you can keep him, as far as I'm concerned. Under two conditions." Mycroft stepped away from the window and took a seat on the couch, making sure to straighten the crease of his trousers over his knees with great care.

 

John, who hadn't done so when he sat down, took the gesture as an intentional insult, and the combination of that along with Mycroft's words roused his combative spirit. He could still try the diplomatic route later. But right now, he needed to put this arrogant snot in his place.

 

"Whatever makes you think your conditions might interest me?" he asked acidly. "Besides: Sherlock isn't my _property_ ," he hurled at Mycroft, elegantly avoiding the fact that he actually had bought Sherlock from Irene Adler (or at least planned to). " _To keep him_..." he repeated, barking out a short, sarcastic laugh. "Sherlock is under my roof of his own free will - and he can stay there as long as he wants." He gave Mycroft a warning look. "But fine. Let's hear what you have to say." He leaned back expectantly, his chin thrust forward as if prepared for battle, crossed his legs and laid his folded hands in his lap. "What are your _conditions_?"

 

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

**_To be continued..._ **

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Sherlock's favourite plug might look something like this... although not made of metal...

 

 

 


	26. Conditions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation by the lovely SwissMiss!!!

**Chapter 26 - Conditions**

 

"Whatever makes you think your conditions might interest me?" he asked acidly. "Besides: Sherlock isn't my _property_ ," he hurled at Mycroft, elegantly avoiding the fact that he actually had bought Sherlock from Irene Adler (or at least planned to). "To _keep_ him..." he repeated, barking out a short, sarcastic laugh. "Sherlock is under my roof of his own free will - and he can stay there as long as he wants." He gave Mycroft a warning look. "But fine. Let's hear what you have to say." He leaned back expectantly, his chin thrust forward as if prepared for battle, crossed his legs and laid his folded hands in his lap.

 

Mycroft acted as if he hadn't even heard John's rant, instead listing off in a business-like voice, "First: you will keep absolutely mum on Sherlock's identity and background."

 

"That works entirely in my favour as well," John answered obligingly. "I'm not very keen on having certain connections between the two of us made public."

 

"I wasn't finished yet," Mycroft commented with a hint of indignation.

 

"Oh - do go on," John said with artificial courtesy, waving his hand to invite Mycroft to continue.

 

Mycroft once again ignored the mild provocation resonating in John's tone and carried on: "Thank you. Additionally, I must request that you prevent Sherlock from getting into any trouble."

 

John raised an eyebrow. "Trouble?"

 

A sour smile curled the corners of Mycroft's lips. "If he truly has told you _everything_ then you know what I am speaking of."

 

"You mean drugs?" John asked bluntly. There was no sense in tiptoeing around the issue.

 

"Precisely," Mycroft agreed, inclining his head slightly.

 

"Not a problem," John replied easily. "He's clean and I never have anything in the house anyway."

 

Mycroft Holmes fell silent for a moment. John felt as if he were being gaped at, even though the mayor's mouth remained in a thin, set line.

 

"Pardon me if I laugh," Mycroft finally said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

 

"No, I won't," John replied coldly.

 

Mycroft's brow creased, giving him a distinct resemblance to a headmaster. "You must know that I tried for years..."

 

"Yes, you tried - and failed - to exorcise it from him," John cut him off. "And I imagine you don't think he's just given it up so easily this time. I suspect very strongly that he simply didn't have a good reason back then. The proper motivation."

 

John found himself the target of an appraising look directed at him from beneath the furrowed brow.

 

"And _you've_ given him that motivation?"

 

John returned the look with all the composure he could muster. "No. He did that himself. He was already clean by the time our paths crossed."

 

Mycroft's lips parted, hung open for a moment, and then closed without John hearing a single sound. Apparently, the information wasn't easy for Sherlock's half-brother to swallow.

 

"Do you think we might move on to the second condition?" John finally asked, smirking.

 

"Pardon? Oh yes - of course," Mycroft returned to the main topic. He swallowed, sat up a bit straighter on the couch, cleared his throat, and only then looked John in the eye. "Second … Sherlock will keep out of our... _business_. I don't want him sticking his nose in things that don't concern him."

 

"That's going to be a bit difficult," John answered, giving Mycroft a look that was both indulgent and regretful.

 

"Why?"

 

John couldn't entirely suppress the superior smile this time. "Very simple. Sherlock's my accountant. My chief accountant, if you will. The final auditor for all my other accountants," he described the situation.

 

"Your... accountant? He's actually your accountant?" Mycroft exclaimed in surprise. He'd lost any control over his composure for the moment.

 

"Is that really so hard to believe?" John asked in a deceptively mild manner.

 

"Yes. No... I simply thought..." Mycroft finally babbled, rather incoherently. It was clear that he hadn't expected this turn of events and wasn't quite sure what to do with them. But then something resolute came into his expression. "In that case, I would like to request that you disregard any allusions I may have made at our last meeting regarding your … _association_ … with Sherlock."

 

"Gladly." John could afford to be generous. He'd got what he wanted, and he'd maintained the upper hand throughout the conversation.

 

"It's just that..." Mycroft continued haltingly, "you're quite well known for such things... and in the past, you'd..."

 

"Sherlock's abilities lie in a completely different area than anyone I've had before," John broke in helpfully before his opponent dug himself in any deeper. It wasn't even a lie. There was no comparison between Sherlock's abilities and those of any of his former bedwarmers. "But I thought we were going to forget all that?" John ended with a smile that was both cold and ingratiating.

 

"Yes. Of course," Mycroft agreed - back to the demeanour of the slick politician.

 

John smiled to himself and stood up. "May I offer you a drink? Cognac perhaps?" He went to the wall cupboard and opened one of the doors, behind which several bottles and glasses were hidden. "I also have quite a decent port here. Or maybe a single malt?" As mentioned - he could afford to be magnanimous and play the host just a little bit.

 

"Cognac, please," Mycroft said, elegantly slipping into the role of the guest and petitioner.

 

"Good choice," John affirmed. "I have a Courvoisier XO Imperial here. I think that's appropriate." He took two round-bellied cognac glasses off the shelf and poured the drinks.

 

When he handed Mycroft his glass, the other man said, "Personally, I prefer a tulip glass to a snifter. It retains the aroma much better."

 

John rolled his eyes but managed not to say anything. Having to get the last word in must have been another family trait. He sat down on the couch again, and the two men enjoyed the intense aroma of dried fruits and the flavour of the first mouthful in silence as the delicate notes of vanilla and chocolate slowly revealed themselves on their tongues.

 

"Well," John finally said, exhaling. "Where do we go from here?"

 

Mycroft appeared surprised. "You're asking me?"

 

"Yes - I'm in a good mood today for once. So I'm asking you: what do you want? Once you've told me, I'll decide whether to give it to you." John set his glass on the side table, leaned back, spread his arms on the back of the sofa on either side of him, and propped his left ankle up on his right knee. There was no way his body language could possibly express his dominant position more clearly.

 

Happily, Mycroft reacted as expected … he bent forward, rested his arms on his knees and held the snifter in both hands, looking into it contemplatively. The crouched position only served to confirm John's territorial posturing.

 

When Mycroft looked up, however, his eyes were hard and filled with resolve.

 

"I want things to go well for London. I've been elected for four years, and my entire concern is for this city and its residents. I'm well aware of the responsibility I bear. My city. My responsibility." He held John's gaze for a moment longer, then finished his drink and set his glass down on the table with a loud clink.

 

John knew a challenge when he saw it, and he had to tip his hat at Mycroft's pluck - provoking him with two armed guards just a door away. Then there was the fact that he was able to follow Mycroft's train of thought better than he was comfortable with. He'd considered London to be _his_ for so long now... he'd never forget the moment when he finally experienced the feeling of having this incredible metropolis under his control in his capacity as a mob boss. The new mayor seemed to be under the sway of very similar emotions. John chewed pensively on his lower lip and moved his arms from the back of the sofa to rest them on the cushions beside him.

 

"All right. What are you thinking?" he finally asked, coming to the point.

 

Mycroft blinked slowly and gave him a sceptical look. "That was... too easy."

 

"No, it wasn't," John said, making a spur of the moment decision to be completely honest. "Look... I understand you pretty well. I feel the same way. London. My city. My privilege. My responsibility." He shrugged his shoulders. "I can accept that way of looking at it. And so once again my question: what do you want?"

 

An expression of bafflement appeared on Mycroft's face as he straightened. "A reduction in the crime rate would be desirable."

 

"Anything else?"

 

Scepticism coloured Mycroft's bewilderment, along with something like fascination. An expression that was so familiar to John from his interactions with Sherlock that it touched him in an odd way. It was rather discomfiting to recognise that look on the mayor's face.

 

"The citizens of London should be able to go about their business in peace and quiet," Mycroft demanded. "It would also be advantageous if you could contain the killings to your kind."

 

John tilted his nose deliberately upward and clicked his tongue in disapproval. " _'My kind'_... I'll be good enough to overhear that bit."

 

Mycroft shrugged his shoulders. "Let us just say I would appreciate it if there were no further killings of police officers nor - as far as possible - of innocent citizens."

 

An amused grin distended John's lips. "All right … let me tell you something. There's never been a police officer murdered while I've been in charge - unless there was an exchange of fire. I can promise you that with a clean conscience. My counter-demand is that Scotland Yard's budget not be raised anytime in the forseeable future. No pay raises either, as far as possible. Order some budget cuts. A salary freeze. The boys are going to get too pricey for me otherwise."

 

Mycroft nodded sourly.

 

"Fine," John affirmed, satisfied. "That's that point all squared away. Then... innocent citizens... there's no such thing, unfortunately. Everyone's got dirt on them somewhere. But I get what you're driving at. No attacks … and no protection money either, am I right?" He paused for Mycroft's deliberate nod. "Attacks... we can discuss that. But protection? Forget it. That's my talent factory. Anyone who wants to make good with me starts out as an enforcer or drug courier. It's how I got started. It builds character and sifts the wheat from the chaff pretty fast."

 

"All right, fine," Mycroft was forced to agree, but he didn't sound very happy about it.

 

"Oh, no need to mope over it," John declared with a patronising air. "I have something else I think you're going to like. What would you say if I mopped up the Chinese and Russians a bit? Maybe a lot? Then you'd only have to deal with me."

 

"A seductive thought," Mycroft retorted, only faintly mocking. "But you do realise I have no influence over police investigations?"

 

John grinned broadly. "Promote Detective Inspector Dimmock. Give him a position where he can take charge of investigations. You can leave the rest to me."

 

"DI Dimmock..."

 

"...does what I say," John said smugly.

 

"That could be arranged," Mycroft said - a bit hesitantly, to be sure, but it was clear that he wasn't entirely opposed to the idea.

 

"Let me summarise then," John concluded. "Following a little clean-up campaign on my part, you won't have any further problems with gang wars. Any inquiries will run into dead ends. The citizens of London can live in peace, and no one from customs will interfere with my... _deliveries_."

 

Mycroft raised both eyebrows. "One presumes you mean illicit substances and weapons?"

 

"One does presume," John acknowledged with a cold smile.

 

"I'm supposed to ensure that your drug running and weapon smuggling activities aren't brought to the attention of Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs?" Mycroft retorted, piqued.

 

"Please," John answered, drawing the word out.

 

"Or else...?" Mycroft prompted.

 

John had expected a cynical undertone, but he certainly hadn't reckoned with such sharp-nosed vigilance. "Or I'll arrange to have a couple of coppers shot. Just for fun," John returned icily. "I'd hate to go against my principles, but if you leave me no other choice... that wouldn't go down well with the voters..." He shook his head in mock regret.

 

Mycroft ground his teeth.

 

John chewed on the inside of his cheek. "It's probably best if I start with the new Inspector, that chap Lestrade. He's been a thorn in my side for a while now. Simply doesn't want to be bought off."

 

The grinding stopped abruptly. "Don't rush into anything," Mycroft said calmly, although it sounded a bit forced. "I'll take it under consideration."

 

"No," John declined firmly. "We either make our deal here and now, or not at all."

 

The two rivals eyed each other silently for several seconds.

 

Finally, Mycroft gave in with a quiet sigh. "Some sort of non-aggression pact then?" he asked with a tortured smile. "Peaceful co-existence?"

 

"For the common good," John confirmed, holding out his hand to Mycroft.

 

After a brief hesitation, the mayor took it. They shook hands perfunctorily to seal the deal.

 

"You're a tough negotiator," Mycroft noted with grudging respect.

 

"I can only return the compliment. I'd prefer never to have dealt with you at all," John offered candidly.

 

Mycroft stood, and John did as well.

 

"I understand you'd rather have dealt with your own candidate... although … there wouldn't really have been much dealing necessary in that case."

 

"No, that's true." John went to the door, but turned back to Mycroft before he got there. "There's one thing I'm dying to know, though - how the hell did you win that election? It shouldn't have happened. I paid off everyone who's anyone, greased palms, handed out bribes..."

 

"I manipulated the voting," Mycroft admitted casually.

 

John forgot to blink.

 

"You... sorry, WHAT?"

 

A smug, almost arrogant grin lifted the corners of Mycroft's mouth. "I believe I can tell _you_. It's not as if you're going to go screaming it from the rooftops. I exchanged the ballot boxes from the districts of Lambeth  & Southwark and Brent & Harrow after the polls closed."

 

"That's why the results didn't jibe with the exit polls!" John cried out in sudden understanding, before shouting at Mycroft, "I can't believe it!"

 

"Believe it, _Doc_. You recall the election in Leicester? The mob's favoured candidate didn't win there either."

 

"Are you suggesting..."

 

"Leicester was _my_ test run for London," Mycroft replied tartly. "And now I do wish you a most pleasant day."

 

John couldn't do anything but stare after Mycroft with his mouth hanging open.

 

"What a bastard," he murmured after a while. The grudging approval in his tone was unmistakable.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_John was lounging around on the grass next to the university sports field, chewing gum and leafing halfheartedly through his anatomy textbook. It was unusually warm and sunny for the middle of May, and the grass beneath him smelled a little like summer already. He'd already changed into his rugby kit. Practise didn't start for another fifteen minutes, though, and he wanted to do something useful with his time, as he had to turn in an assignment in a week that he hadn't even started yet._

 

_"Hello."_

 

_A man's voice. John didn't react. Someone cleared their throat. Then there were footsteps. A shadow fell over him._

 

_"Hey, you there."_

 

_John looked up from his book, irritated. A man. Old. At least thirty. Posh suit, posh shoes, swank watch._

 

_"Yeah, what?" John said in a surly tone. He fancied he knew pretty well what the man wanted. Men like him always hung out around sports fields._

 

_"You study medicine?" the man asked with a broad grin that was probably meant to come across as friendly._

 

_"What's it to you?" John muttered, turning the page in his book._

 

_"And you play rugby too."_

 

_"So what?!" John exploded. "What do you want? Other than to waste my time."_

 

_"Calm down..." the man said with a soothing gesture. "I just wanted to make you an offer. You could probably use a little extra cash, yeah?"_

 

_John rolled his eyes and set his book aside. Then he leaned back on his elbows and spread his legs meaningfully._

 

_"Why?" he said in a breathy voice with an exaggeratedly slutty wink. "You like boys in kit?"_

 

_The man took a step back in shock and a flaming red colour shot into his face. "No... my God... no!" he stammered, panicking._

 

_"I do," John whispered seductively, pursed his lips and blew a big bubble with his gum, then let it burst. "Reckon you're not really my type then."_

 

_"Hey - don't get cheeky, kid!" the man warned him._

 

_John was just waiting for something like that and jumped up._

 

_"Who are you calling 'kid'?" he hissed, the threat clear in his voice, completely ignoring the fact that the man was almost an entire head bigger than him._

 

_"My goodness..." the man said, half laughing and half unsure. "You're quite a character... I was simply going to make you a lucrative business proposition. A young bloke like you probably could use a few extra quid, yeah?"_

 

_John gave him a once-over. "Depends what for. Start talking," he said charitably._

 

_"Oh..." the man began, sounding totally friendly all of a sudden. "I've been checking things out around campus, and I think you're just the chap for the job. All you need to do is pick up a bag from a good friend of mine and bring it to another good friend. Piece of cake."_

 

_John ran his tongue across his upper lip. "You think I'm stupid or what? You want me to run drugs for you?"_

 

_The man's eyes narrowed warily. "No one said anything about drugs."_

 

_"Yeah, I did," John remarked in a casual tone. "But it's fine. If the price is right, I'll do it."_

 

_The man laughed in astonishment. "I don't think I've ever come across one like you before!"_

 

_"That's all right," John expounded generously. "I'm one of a kind. How many runs would I have to make to buy one of those watches?" he asked, indicating the expensive wristwatch the man was wearing._

 

_His parents way up in Scotland couldn't buy him a luxury like that. It was hard enough for them to scrape together the money for school, even with the modest scholarship he'd received from some foundation. And so John was even more envious of those of his fellow students who were better off financially, his covetous eye fixing more and more on status symbols that were completely out of reach for him, like limited edition watches and pricey name-brand clothing. And then there was Victor, whom he'd been together with for a good six months now. The equipment he needed now and then for his architecture studies wasn't exactly cheap. He could use a new draughting board, one of the big ones - or one of those expensive compass cases he'd seen in a catalogue and kept going back to with a yearning look whenever he thought John wasn't watching. Maybe this was the chance he'd always been waiting for. The chance to make some quick, easy money. John didn't really have any moral objections. That's what his friend Mike was for. It would forever remain a mystery to him why Mike had chosen to study law and economics - in John's opinion, just another more dignified form of racketeering._

 

_"You like it?"_

 

_"Maybe," John answered evasively._

 

_The man considered for a moment. "Okay, look... if you do a good job as a gopher we might have another job for you. One that pays even better. You can earn yourself a watch like this in no time. How's that sound?"_

 

_John shrugged his shoulders as if he didn't care, in order to cover up his excitement. "Cool. Can I bring a friend along?"_

 

_Mike would go along with him for sure. He'd been yammering at John forever about not being able to afford an engagement ring for his girlfriend, Susan._

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

John had barely closed the door behind him at home when Sherlock stormed across the hall toward him, emitting enough nervous energy to power Piccadilly Circus for three days and nights.

 

"Andandandandand?" Sherlock blurted out excitedly, grabbing at the lapels of John's jacket with both hands.

 

John had the distinct impression of being greeted by a puppy who was trying to jump up his legs, rather than a grown man who was a good half a head taller than him.

 

"My goodness, Sherlock - it's all fine," John declared, half laughing and half annoyed as he tried to wrest his jacket out of Sherlock's destructive grip. In vain. "We came to an understanding."

 

"Tell me everything!" Sherlock demanded emphatically, and John laughed. It was nice to be home again.

 

Sherlock hung on his every word as he gave a rough outline of his conversation with Mycroft Holmes and the agreements they'd come to. But the searching, skittish gaze didn't disappear, and eventually he interrupted John impatiently.

 

"Not that!" Sherlock cried out, irritated and a little disparaging. "I couldn't care less about your business dealings."

 

John barked out a short, amused laugh. "Your brother would have been happy to hear that."

 

Sherlock's eyes narrowed at that. "Why?" he asked suspiciously.

 

"He wanted you to keep out of our business matters. That was one of his conditions for letting you stay here." His laugh ended with a derisive snort. "Conditions! As if he has anything to say about where you live."

 

Sherlock joined in his laughter, hoping that John didn't notice how forced it sounded.

 

"What did you say?" he wanted to know, making sure to sound as neutral as possible, even as his heart was trying to gallop up through his throat.

 

They'd talked about him! But what had they said? WHAT? Whatever it was, it looked like he was going to be able to stay with John. His choice of words led to the conclusion that Mycroft hadn't said anything... that Mycroft had kept their - _Sherlock’s_ \- secret. But why? Why? Mycroft wasn't exactly known for his altruism. What did it benefit him if he kept quiet? What advantage did he hope to gain? Or did it just give him pleasure to see that Damoclean sword hanging over Sherlock's head? Sherlock certainly wouldn't put it past him.

 

The fact that he wasn't able to make heads or tails of Mycroft's baffling behaviour drove Sherlock nearly round the bend, and troubled him at the same time. Mycroft must have noticed that John didn't know the whole story... he always noticed everything... didn't he? Was it possible that the two men had simply talked past each other on such a grand scale?

 

Wait a moment... what had John said just now? Mycroft had tried to attach conditions to Sherlock's continued residence with John... that meant that Mycroft really did intend to let Sherlock stay here - and it also meant that Mycroft thought John knew about it. Sherlock felt sick. The two of them really had talked right past each other! Going by the way John had made fun of Mycroft's conditions just now, he truly had no idea, and yet the two of them had come to an agreement over where Sherlock would live. But at what cost? What other conditions had Mycroft set? Had John agreed to them? And could he ask that question without giving away himself and his lies? Sherlock decided against it in the end. It was too risky. At the end of the day, any such considerations were completely meaningless.

 

The only truly important question was: when would Mycroft realise that John had no idea? And when would he use that knowledge as a weapon against him?

 

"What did I say? The truth," John answered with a laconic shrug. "I told him it wouldn't be possible to keep you out of my business dealings since you're my chief accountant."

 

"John..." Sherlock whispered in a strangled voice. John couldn't tell by the sound of it whether Sherlock was going to break into a rant or hysterical laughter.

 

"What? It's not a lie!" John declared - in the indignant tone of the unjustly accused.

 

"But he..." Sherlock licked his lower lip nervously. "He must know that you and I... that we... what we are to each other?" An embarrassed gesture accompanied his vague statement.

 

He was so obviously at a loss for words with which to describe their relationship that John felt uncomfortable - almost pained - to witness him being so tongue-tied. His lips parted to help Sherlock out, only for him to realise that he didn't know what to say either - what to call what they shared. In order to cover his own uncertainty, he cleared his throat and said instead, "He made a pretty thinly veiled innuendo in that direction at our last meeting. That's why I did my best to mislead him this time."

 

Sherlock was watching John very closely, saw his hesitation, and wondered whether John was ashamed of him. The hesitation was highly unlikely to be due to the fact that he - Sherlock - was a man. John was remarkably open about his sexuality - despite his _'career'_. Therefore, it must be something else about Sherlock. It was possible, of course, that John simply hadn't wanted to admit it in front of Mycroft because Mycroft was, after all, Sherlock's half-brother. But it seemed more credible that John was ashamed of having a former drug addict and prostitute for a lover.

 

That hesitation and denial hurt Sherlock more than he cared to admit, especially after the last few days and nights, when John had been so full of praise for him.

 

"He's going to find out about our living arrangements sooner or later," he therefore remarked rather sharply, smoothing out John's wrinkled jacket with an absent-minded gesture in a vain attempt to get out the creases he'd put in it.

 

"What do you mean?" John asked, all ears again.

 

"Oh, it's simple!" Sherlock exclaimed somewhat condescendingly. "He's going to try to get one of your staff members on his side. If he hasn't already done so."

 

John gaped at him, his mouth hanging open, and tried to comprehend the monstrous possibility that he might be spied on in his own house, by one of his own employees.

 

"He wouldn't dare!" he gritted out between his teeth.

 

"You don't think so?" Sherlock asked, his bitterness poorly veiled. "Then allow me to inform you that that is precisely Mycroft's preferred _modus operandi_. During my time at university, he paid some of the other students to _monitor_ me for him."

 

"That..." John steamed angrily.

 

"John... before you say anything... you're planning on doing exactly the same thing to him," Sherlock remarked with mild cynicism. "You haven't said anything about it, but you've been trying to figure out for days how to get one of your people into his household. Am I right or not?"

 

"Bloody hell!" John swore fervently as soon as he realised Sherlock had seen right through him, curling his hands into fists. He looked up at Sherlock with a combination of respect and pride.

 

A thin, mischievous smile flitted across Sherlock's lips. "Where does he live?"

 

"What? Who?"

 

"Mycroft," Sherlock clarified. "Where does he live? Does he have a house? A flat?"

 

John gave Sherlock a bewildered look. "He lives in one of those highrises. With a concierge and all the trappings," he answered slowly, not understanding what the question had to do with his problem. "I thought... maybe the cleaning lady..."

 

Sherlock shook his head firmly. "Buy the concierge," he declared decisively. "The concierge has a key to the flat, he knows when Mycroft comes and goes..."

 

John stared off into the distance, his mouth hanging open for a moment before looking at Sherlock again.

 

"That's brilliant!" he cried out, excited. He laid both hands on Sherlock's cheeks, pulled his head down a bit and kissed him on the forehead. "Fantastic!"

 

Sherlock felt himself blush. John had never kissed him on the forehead before in a situation like this. The praise felt good. A pleased smile appeared on his lips. He tried to gaze deeply into John's eyes, maybe to get a real kiss... but John's thoughts were already elsewhere, having moved on.

 

"Now I just need to stop Mycroft from hearing anything... or getting an eyeful of my papers," he thought out loud.

 

Sherlock dropped his shoulders in disappointment, but accepted the fact that he was only wanted as a brainstormer at the moment.

 

"Thomas and the two maids are the only two possibilities."

 

"Eleanor and Anthea?"

 

"Exactly," Sherlock confirmed. "You always lock your office, so your files are fairly safe." John gave him a look that was both sardonic and challenging, and Sherlock responded with an unapologetic grin, "As long as no one forces their way in, which can't be ruled out entirely, but that would also never go unnoticed. Aside from that, those three are the only ones who can come and go without anyone remarking on it. They all have a key to your office and go in when you're not there..."

 

"...to clean," John blurted out as understanding came over him. He thought about it for a moment and made a quick decision. "Fine, then they'll have to be watched when they clean from now on. Congratulations - you've just been promoted to cleaning monitor." He beamed at Sherlock.

 

"Me?" Sherlock exclaimed with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

 

A broad grin spread across John's face. "You're not just my chief accountant, you're also my..."

 

"But why me?" Sherlock interrupted him impatiently.

 

"Because it was your idea and you're here all the time anyway," John promptly replied. "Speaking of... now that the cat's out of the bag and your _dear brother_ knows where you are, you can stop being such a hermit."

 

"Why?" Sherlock asked hesitantly, his brow creasing.

 

John sighed softly. "Sherlock..." he said with a slight shake of his head. "So I can go out with you sometime, for example. I'd really like that."

 

That simple remark - completely out of the blue - and the motivation and emotions behind it, knocked Sherlock completely off balance. John wanted to be seen in public with him? Him, of all people? So he wasn't ashamed of him after all... but why hadn't he admitted to Mycroft that they... Sherlock swallowed down the lump in his throat with difficulty. It was seductively easy for the images to appear before his mind's eye...

 

Candles in silver holders, waiters in tuxedos, John in an expensive suit, both of them sitting at a table laid with silver, flowers, fine china and damask tablecloths and serviettes... going to the opera - which John loved; his rapturous expression upon seeing a perfectly executed aria, maybe even a premiere or a classical concert... parties at which John introduced Sherlock to the other guests, his eyes filled with pride...

 

Oh, how much... how very, very much Sherlock wanted to give in to the temptation. How wonderful it would be...

 

But then John would have more ideas. It wouldn't be long before John wanted to show him the world. A weekend in Paris... a jaunt to New York... holidays in Greece...

 

And even if he agreed to the restaurants and everything else, he'd have to say no to those other plans. He didn't have a passport, no identification at all. There was no way he could leave the country. How could he explain that to John? What lie would be plausible? It was simply impossible.

 

And for that reason, he had to be consistent and say _no_ to _everything_. It was easier to come up with an explanation for that.

 

Inside, Sherlock was desperately wringing his hands and pulling at his hair. But in the end he couldn't blame anyone other than himself for his dilemma.

 

Why had he let Mycroft turn him into a victim back then? It was a role he'd never wanted - he didn't even feel that he was on lesser footing with John... It had been a mistake to give in back then. He should have done something, tried anything! He shouldn't have just given up. He should have hired a solicitor and gone to court, fought the guardianship and exposed Mycroft's machinations. But he'd been spineless and run away and hidden. Even now, he couldn't bring himself to admit his lies to John and confess the truth. He had to face facts: he was a coward.

 

"You want to take me out?" Sherlock asked quietly. "To an expensive restaurant? With French waiters? With a wine list as thick as a book and an incomprehensible menu without any prices?"

 

A pleased smile brightened John's face. "That's right... I see we understand each other."

 

Sherlock took a deep breath. What he was about to say was painful but it had to be said. For one thing, it gave him the perfect excuse, and for another, John obviously hadn't thought of everything.

 

"And then... one of my former clients is sitting at the next table. What then?" he asked in a voice that was both more cutting and more forlorn than he'd intended. This was more than just an excuse for Sherlock. More than a variant of the lie he'd built up. It was something that really concerned him. Not for his sake... but for John's.

 

John frowned briefly, then said, "Then nothing." He shrugged. "Most of those blokes are married and would rather eat glass than get drawn into a scandal. And if anyone does recognise you, that just gives me the opportunity to show you off a bit. They'll be green with envy that I've got you all to myself. That's it."

 

Sherlock had to hold back the unexpected - and completely unwanted - tears that came to his eyes. How did John do that? How did he manage, in such uninspired words - little more than an aside - to paint a picture of the future that tempted Sherlock with such vibrant colours? One of them needed to maintain a cool head in this matter, however. And if John wasn't going to take on that role, then it would have to be Sherlock.

 

"Is that so. Green with envy. Will they really be?" he asked, lifting one eyebrow.

 

"Yes. They will," John answered curtly and firmly, and once again the urge came over Sherlock to forget everything, to toss all caution to the wind and throw himself at John's feet, cling to his legs and never let go again.

 

"They'll also know that you're sitting at a table with a whore and apparently are unable to find anyone...better," Sherlock went on flatly. Once again, it hurt to say such things. It felt like he'd stuck an icy knife right into the centre of his heart and twisted it around inside the wound. Some of his own self-loathing must have shown on his face, for all of a sudden he felt John's hand gently touch his cheek.

 

"Sherlock," John said softly.

 

"I don't want them to talk about you like that," Sherlock explained stubbornly, turning his eyes away. No, no one should ever think that John couldn't find anything better than him. John was much too good for him. He couldn't stand by and let John's reputation be ruined by him, couldn't let him be pulled down in any way due to him. John should only spend time with someone who was his equal, who could stand on equal footing with him in everything, who...

 

"Sherlock, let them talk," John's voice cut neatly through Sherlock's despairing thoughts. "People will always talk. They do little else. I don't give a damn, and there's no one who's better for me than you."

 

Sherlock looked up at those last words. Was his heart still beating? Or had it given up the ghost from shock and happiness? He couldn't feel anything anymore... it must have stopped - at least it seemed that way to him. Baffled and amazed, he returned John's calm, confident gaze. His brain was virtually unable to process the information. Had he even heard correctly? Or was his mind just serving up what he wanted most desperately to hear? Should he ask John to say it again? Was John even serious? Or had he just said it to calm Sherlock down? Did he have any idea what he did to Sherlock when he said things like that? What declarations like that did to him.... with him... inside him?

 

"John..." Sherlock whispered, and he felt just a little bit ashamed at how touched and overwhelmed he sounded; he was also ashamed for lying to John... not confiding everything in him... not trusting him. Now would be the time to clear the air. Sherlock was torn. Should he...? Or was it too late already? Would a confession at this point destroy more than it would set free? Sherlock would have liked to break something, to destroy something, in order to give an outlet to his conflicting emotions through a loud crash or clatter so he could breathe and think more easily. _There's no one who's better for me_... Why had John said something like that to him? How could he admit now that he'd lied to him? It would utterly destroy the image - a very flattering one, even if idealised and inaccurate - that John had formed of him.

 

He couldn't tell him. It was impossible... John would never forgive him.

 

Distraught and desperate, Sherlock realised he didn't have any choice than to continue lying to John... to stick to the web of deceit he'd already constructed, and to continue spinning it.

 

"Yes?" John said, ghosting a feather-light kiss across the full lips, even as they began to tremble.

 

John had shaken himself as much as Sherlock, without even intending to. He simply had more practise in not letting it show. Maintaining a poker face was one of the most important survival strategies in his milieu.

 

 _No one better_... Where had that come from? Why had he said that? _Because it's the truth and you bloody well know it,_ his brain prompted him helpfully. And now? Would Sherlock expect declarations of love from him? Declarations and promises he'd done his utmost to avoid in the past because it seemed vulgar, and he had an aversion to sickly sweet drivel like that... Was he going to be forced to say all those things he struggled against, even though they'd been on the tip of his tongue for so long now? Should he say the words he'd thought would never cross his lips again in his lifetime … words he wasn't ready for... might never be ready for? And yet Sherlock truly was the best thing that had ever happened to him. His life with Sherlock the past few weeks had been better - happier, even - than all the past few years put together. And John didn't want any of that to change. If it were up to him, everything would simply continue as it was now. There was no need to tinker with a system that was running perfectly well.

 

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, removing himself from John's immediate presence.

 

"Still..." he said, hating himself immeasurably for it. What a coward he was!

 

"So you're still not going to leave the house," John stated with a sigh that was more an expression of relief that there wasn't going to be any sweet talk required of him than it was over his annoyance at Sherlock's refusal to go outside. At the same time, that relief made him uncomfortable, as if it were unjust of him to feel that way. He quickly shoved those unpleasant feelings into a corner of his brain and tried not to think about it any longer.

 

"No. At least... not yet," Sherlock confirmed. He had to turn away from John, had to get his emotions and his face under control again. Why did it take so much out of him to keep his voice from sounding so choked and heavy with tears? "I... I don't trust Mycroft. He's sure to be planning something."

 

"What should he be..."

 

"He could have me abducted and then blackmail you," Sherlock objected vehemently, turning halfway back around toward John. "Now that he knows I'm... _important_ to you. Even if it is only as your head accountant." It was a weak excuse, and Sherlock knew it. But he couldn't for the life of him think of anything better in the state he was in.

 

John threw his arms in the air in aggravation. "You're insane," he cried. "Even if he were, don't you think I'd have you out of there in no time?"

 

Once again, Sherlock had to choke back the lump in his throat. John would get him out? John would come to his rescue? What had he done to deserve all this? Hesitantly, he turned to face John again.

 

"John... just let me," he pleaded, going so far as to clasp his hands as if in prayer. "Please. I... just need a little more time. I've been hiding from him for so long."

 

John regarded him wordlessly. If he'd ever needed confirmation that Sherlock wasn't telling him the whole truth about himself and his half-brother, Mycroft, he'd received it now in Sherlock's continued refusal to leave the house. There was something rotten in Denmark. It pained him that Sherlock apparently didn't trust him enough to admit his fabrications. But if that was the case, then he had to accept it. There was no way he was going to push Sherlock on this. He should come to John with the truth when he was ready. John could wait. Although it was a mystery to him where he was getting all the patience from that he needed for Sherlock. He'd never been known for such long-suffering equanimity as he was displaying now.

 

"All right. You do know that I can't resist a _'please'_ from you?" John replied with a thin smile and a slight shake of his head. "As rare as it is that you say it to me..."

 

Boundless relief flooded through Sherlock. John had bought his extremely weak arguments and would probably never dig any deeper. Why did all of this upset him so much? Why was he affected by it so much? Why did it get under his skin the way it did? He didn't use to be like this... everything had bounced off him before. Beatings, curses... none of it had ever touched him. But now it was enough for John to frown to throw him completely off balance. All of a sudden, he recalled Irene's remark about his heart. Had he really hidden his heart all these years, only to have John find it now? It certainly looked that way. John had found it, and now it belonged to him. Whether he wanted it to or not. Whether he was aware of it or not. Sherlock rather guessed the answer was _'not'_. But none of that mattered in the end. Sherlock had given John his heart, and that thought alone, strangely, filled him with an almost surreal peace.

 

"Don't think you can wrap me around your little finger whenever you want now," John chided him grumpily, but his eyes twinkled as he said it. "I know perfectly well that you know _how_ to manipulate me! But remember: you only get away with it because I let you."

 

Secretly, John knew that was an empty threat. He'd let himself be manipulated by Sherlock anytime, simply because he didn't have the heart to sabotage Sherlock's efforts and ignore his little tricks, thus disappointing all his hopes. Why did this young man get under his skin the way no one else before him ever had? Other than maybe... Victor... back then... Victor had got under his skin like that. But John didn't want to think about Victor right now. Victor was the past. Sherlock was the present. And it was good that way.

 

"I know," Sherlock said with a smile that was both contrite and wry. "Thank you, John." And for the first time, that word didn't feel awkward and unfamiliar in his mouth.

 

Sherlock decided not to think anymore about the fact that he'd lied to John; not to think about the fact that Mycroft could destroy everything at any time with a single word. Instead, he decided to enjoy to the fullest every single one of the infinitely precious moments that were left to him to spend with John, unburdened by anything, as much as that was possible.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_**To be continued...** _

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

A couple of links about the cognac that was consumed in this chapter and the cognac snifters that Mycroft complained about:

 

<http://blog.cognac-expert.com/which-cognac-glasses-and-snifters-are-the-best/>

_Courvoisier XO Imperial:_

_(I took the tasting notes from a german site… therefore they may differ from the english description)_

<http://www.vinocheapo.com/courvoisier-cognac-xo-imperial-750ml/>

<https://www.cognac-expert.com/xo-cognac/courvoisier-xo-cognac-imperial>

 

 

 

 

 

 


	27. Rear Cover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> translation by the unforgettable [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/profile)

 

**Chapter 27: Rear Cover**

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

That very same day, John confiscated all the keys to his office from his employees and had someone come by to install a new lock in his office door. There were only three keys to the new lock, and they could be found in the possession of John, Mike and Sherlock.

 

Sherlock accepted his key with mixed feelings. On the one hand, it demonstrated John's complete faith in him - on the other hand, it didn't exactly make him any more popular with the maids. Whereas Eleanor was more of a follower and couldn't stand him simply because the rest of the house staff wasn't very well disposed toward him, he suspected that Anthea wouldn't so much as spit on him if he were in the midst of a blazing inferno. She probably held it against him personally that the bedroom sheets constantly needed to be changed.

 

The next time the office needed cleaning, things went pretty much as expected. Following a venomous sidelong glare that Anthea must have assumed - wrongly - Sherlock wouldn't notice, the two maids set to work on the furniture with cleaning rags and polish while Thomas hoovered the floor.

 

Sherlock stood around in front of the windows, feeling as superfluous and out of place as a penguin in the Sahara.

 

When Thomas neared him, working at his usual unhurried pace, Sherlock spoke to him under cover of the hum of the hoover.

 

"Thomas... I need something," Sherlock murmured just loud enough for Thomas to understand him.

 

"My pleasure, sir," Thomas replied promptly. He couldn't be convinced to drop the _'sir'_ , despite the fact that Sherlock had asked him to several times and Thomas was the only member of the staff who addressed Sherlock in that manner. "What brand would you like this time?"

 

"It's not cigarettes, Thomas," Sherlock said quietly. "I need something else this time..." He lowered his voice even further and informed Thomas of his request, making him widen his eyes in surprise and grin.

 

"No problem, sir," Thomas answered. "I think I can get it for you by tomorrow evening."

 

Sherlock nodded to him with an expression of relief on his face.

 

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

John was meeting with the London borough heads in a side room at a restaurant in order to present them with his version of his meeting with the mayor. He gave any mention of Sherlock a wide berth, instead emphasising Mycroft Holmes' compliance and his own supremacy all the more.

 

The other men weren't exactly eating out of his hand the way John remembered from earlier occasions - the ignominy and anger over the lost election were too fresh - but at least they believed him and seemed to be fairly satisfied with the results.

 

"So … no more kid gloves with the Russkies and the Chinks?" asked one of the men - who was not exactly known for his highbrow language.

 

"No, none," John confirmed happily. "Dimmock will cover us. His appointment will be in tomorrow's paper. I've known about it since yesterday and I've already given him the relevant instructions."

 

"He won't have agreed to it at his regular price, I assume," Albright interjected, somewhat pedantically.

 

John frowned slightly. This Albright character had been a pain in the neck for a while now. He was like a pebble in your shoe. For the most part it went unnoticed, but then it would unexpectedly poke you right in a tender spot. But he was very successful in his borough and had his boys surprisingly well in hand.

 

"Of course he wanted more money," John agreed easily, as if it were no big deal. "He's getting a pay rise from Scotland Yard, after all. More work, more responsibility, and more pressure also mean more money. It's all been set up and everyone's happy," he said in an attempt to nip any further commentary - or criticism - in the bud.

 

"Great!" the first man exclaimed, rubbing his hands. "I have a couple of fellows who are just itching to be let off their leads."

 

John merely nodded. He wasn't overly fond of hotheads with more brawn than brain, whose bloodthirstiness was often greater than their stomachs could handle and regularly ended up vomiting into the gutter after their missions. However, they were extremely useful at times like this. A higher calibre of cannon fodder and more or less disposable should the adversary end up fighting back harder than expected. He was basically amenable to such a plan of action, but he didn't want to encourage it too much and let it turn into the standard response.

 

The only reason he'd been able to maintain his position at the head of the _family_ for so long was because he placed a certain value on proceeding with a cool head and not making too much trouble with the law. That was precisely the reason why he was against any targeted murders of police officers. He knew perfectly well: kill a cop and a thousand other cops would set heaven and earth in motion trying to catch you... whether it be for tax evasion or an unpaid parking ticket.

 

John had done quite well with his _politics_ so far. The police had him blacklisted, to be sure, but his bribes were still sufficient to calm any feathers that might be ruffled. However, you had to be a dyed in the wool idiot to try to buy your way free of murdering a police officer - there simply wasn't enough money in the world. And John might be many things … but he was certainly no idiot. He knew exactly how to keep out of any unnecessary trouble.

 

"Good," said the man, rubbing his hands again. "Why don't we all have a nightcap at Doc Watson's and toast the whole affair properly?"

 

John's smile was somewhat strangled. He'd imagined his evening going rather differently than playing the host to thirsty - no doubt soon to be hopelessly drunk - mobsters. But he put on his game face. As if he had any choice.

 

A glance at his watch told him it was later than he'd thought anyway. Sherlock had probably gotten tired of waiting for him and given up in favour of a restful sleep.

 

John shrugged his shoulders in resignation. He might as well open his house and play the affable host to these ignoramuses who couldn't tell a cognac from a brandy.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

As soon as Sherlock heard the sound of the front door opening, he came out of John's office into the entry hall, swinging his hips in a lascivious manner, meeting John's surprised gaze with knowing, bedroom eyes and saying in a dark, breathy voice, "It's a good thing you're finally here, Mr Watson..."

 

However, he fell abruptly silent at that point in his little prepared speech, as there were more men in suits pushing their way into the hall behind John.

 

 _Damn._ But then Sherlock wasn't really surprised. He'd never had much luck with erotic roleplaying.

 

John swallowed, his throat dry, and ran his tongue greedily across his upper lip at the unexpected sight. The way Sherlock stood in the open doorway, the room behind him softly illuminated, his shirt unbuttoned down to his navel, his hips tilted provocatively forward, his dark curls in artful disarray and a pair of dark, horn-rimmed glasses John had never seen before perched on his nose … Sherlock came across as the fantasy of a gay porn director come alive.

 

But then the tantalising fantasy - having made John's trousers go tight - dissolved in the wake of the rather noisy entrance of his guests and Mike's soft gasp, leaving nothing more than a certain awkwardness that needed to be glossed over, and quickly. Fortunately, Sherlock reacted promptly following that moment of shock.

 

"Oh, pardon me, Mr Watson," he announced in his usual cool voice, dropped the seductive pose and stood up straight. "I didn't know you had company."

 

"It's fine," John waved it off under the amused and curious looks of his guests. "I would have called if I'd known you were working so late." He hoped Sherlock understood that John had truly believed he'd already be in bed at this late hour.

 

Sherlock nodded in a guarded manner.

 

"I was just working on the Italian correspondence and there were a few things that came up. But that can wait until tomorrow. Good night, Mr Watson."

 

"Good night, Sherlock," John said, and Sherlock retired to the upper floor of the house. He bore a certain resemblance to a wet poodle, despite his stiff posture.

 

In the meantime, Jacques and Thomas had approached the group to take their jackets and coats.

 

"Who was that then?" one of the men asked as John led them into the parlour, where - as they all knew - the cushy armchairs, expensive cigars, and fine liquors were to be found.

 

"That was Sherlock Sigerson," John answered tersely. It wasn't his intention to keep his relationship with Sherlock a secret, but he hadn't planned on revealing it in this manner.

 

"Sigerson?" another man asked. "Your new accountant? That genius with numbers?"

 

"Accountant?" a third man broke in. "Tell me another one. That was some love bite that bloke had on his neck. You could have introduced us ... maybe he'd have liked to join us."

 

John was used to people saying things like that. They didn't mean anything. Nothing at all. His mob buddies were happily indifferent as to whether he rolled in the hay with blokes or birds, and even if their indifference was just a front because they were scared shitless of him, that was fine with John. But today those meaningless taunts rubbed him the wrong way for some reason.

 

"Yes, that was Sherlock Sigerson. My new accountant. The man everyone's shitting their pants over because he's able to uncover each and every one of their little rackets." He looked around the group in a warning that everyone understood.

 

Some of them muttered, _''s not a crime to ask_ ,' or _'Sorry, Doc_ ,' and turned their attention to Jacques and Thomas, who were inquiring after the guests' wishes and distributing drinks generously.

 

Albright was the only one who wasn't able to hold back from getting one last dig in.

 

"You've sure landed yourself a pretty little whore with that one," he remarked, his tone so markedly casual that it was clear to everyone how disparaging it was really meant to be. "Must have cost you a pretty penny. But if he's as good with his mouth as he is with numbers..." Albright shrugged his shoulders with urbane candour.

 

John smiled. "He cost me a sight less than the whore you keep in that flat in Chelsea. And he's better with his mouth too, that's for sure. How's your wife, by the way?" he replied calmly. His smile turned icy just for a moment, before warming again as he turned to his other guests. "Jacques, Thomas - the good whiskey for my friends. The really good stuff!"

 

Secretly, John took a deep, measured breath. His mob cohorts didn't care about his sex life as long as they were afraid of him and he was successful. Just that long, and not one second more. But he'd have to keep a closer eye on this Albright. John had absolutely no idea why the man was up in arms all of a sudden. There'd never been a problem with him before - he'd had control of the borough of Southwark for years under John's command, and he'd always done a solid job. But the night of the election, when it had looked like the reins were slipping out of John's hands, it had been Albright who had let the first arrow fly. Tonight was the second. What was the saying? The first hit goes on the opponent's account, the second on one's own. John gritted his teeth. He'd be damned if he'd let it come to a third.

 

The orange ends of the cigarettes being smoked by his guests' various bodyguards patrolling outside the windows glowed like stoned fireflies in the night.

 

The sight made John think of Sherlock once again. But the others were still drinking and talking, wanting to discuss their next steps with him and make plans.

 

John finally managed to pull back from the group a bit and exchange a few whispered words with Mike.

 

"Please go upstairs and tell Sherlock it's not his fault, and he should go to bed," John murmured to his friend, causing Mike's eyebrow's to shoot up in surprise.

 

"Why should I... do it yourself," Mike retorted indignantly.

 

John's gaze became almost pleading. "I can't."

 

"Good God - five minutes!" Mike answered. "Act like you're going to the toilet..."

 

"Mike," John interrupted him, both quiet and urgent. "It would end up being more than five minutes."

 

"He'll be asleep by now anyway," Mike countered stubbornly.

 

John snorted softly. "No, he won't. If I know him, he's up there pacing like a tiger in a cage, flagellating himself because he thinks he put me in a compromising position in front of my guests or some such nonsense."

 

Mike shook his head slowly. "Are you sure?"

 

"Pretty sure," John answered, sighing quietly. "He practically enjoys fretting over things."

 

"If you want my opinion..." Mike began.

 

"No, I don't," John cut him off promptly.

 

"...then you're both out to lunch," Mike ended his statement, unimpressed, and left the room in a deliberately casual manner, as if he were on the way to the toilet and not to play _postillon d'amour_ for his friend and boss.

 

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

The closer Mike came to the living room on the first floor, the clearer it became that John was right. Sherlock wasn't asleep.

 

An aria from an opera blared out of a CD player. Mike wasn't exactly uneducated when it came to the arts, but unlike John he preferred the theatre to the opera, and he didn't recognise either the aria or the opera it was from. With a sigh of resignation, he opened the door and found Sherlock reclining on the couch.

 

In that, at least, John's clairvoyant abilities had failed. However, Sherlock's fingers - which he had pressed together under his chin - twitched nervously against each other at the sound of each individual tone that rang out through the air, bearing silent testimony to his inner turmoil, which John had predicted quite accurately.

 

The flaring nostrils were the only sign that Sherlock was aware he was no longer alone. His eyes remained fixed on an imaginary point somewhere just short of the ceiling.

 

"John sent me..." Mike began, but was interrupted immediately.

 

"I'd thought he'd come himself," Sherlock remarked in a strangely controlled yet dispirited tone.

 

Mike made a vague gesture with his hand. "Well, he would have, but he can't get away at the moment."

 

"Fine," Sherlock said, abruptly swinging his legs off the couch and setting them onto the floor with a certain decisiveness. "Then I'd best pack my things... there's not much. It won't take long. Would Bridges be able to drive me? No, probably not. I... could take a taxi... which I can't pay for... I wonder if John...? No... I can walk just as well... I..."

 

"Taxi?!" Mike cried, aghast. "Pack your bags? What the hell are you talking about?"

 

"I'm talking about leaving," Sherlock answered stoically.

 

"But why?" Mike asked blankly.

 

"John sent you to throw me out... and I..."

 

"No one's throwing you out here! Least of all John!" Mike said with half a grin. "How did you ever come up with such an insane notion?"

 

Sherlock swallowed and sat there for a moment with his mouth hanging slightly open, just staring at Mike.

 

"He's not throwing me out?" he finally asked, his voice hoarse.

 

"No, of course not," Mike assured him, shaking his head in the face of so much unnecessary drama. "Why should he?"

 

Sherlock stared at him, his eyes round. "Due to ... because..." he stammered. "Because of what happened earlier. Because of..." He pointed at the big, black, horn-rimmed glasses lying on the coffee table with a scornful despair that struck Mike as both absurd and amusing.

 

"Oh, that..." Mike replied dismissively. "That was nothing. The other bosses have seen worse."

 

"But not here. Not with John!" Sherlock countered indignantly.

 

"Oh, yes!" Mike chortled at the memory. "He had a dancer for a couple of weeks once... he burst into the meeting buck naked wanting to know where John had hidden the pink vibrator. Another let one of the chauffeurs fuck him... that made for a spot of trouble when his boss wanted to leave and couldn't find his chauffeur. And when they found the two of them..." Mike shrugged.

 

Sherlock's eyebrows drew in closer and closer the longer Mike spoke. _Oh ho... was the man jealous or something?_ Just to be on the safe side - and because he really didn't want to antagonise anyone - Mike kept the episode to himself about the guy who was so drunk and stoned that he promised to orally pleasure all the female guests at a party.

 

"Why did John send you up here then?" Sherlock wanted to know.

 

"Oh, right..." Mike said, rubbing his fleshy neck sheepishly. "He sent me so you wouldn't worry."

 

"He's not angry at me?" Sherlock pressed, his scepticism clear.

 

"No, he's not angry at you for the display. Quite the opposite, actually," Mike assuaged Sherlock's fears. "What was that supposed to be anyway?"

 

Sherlock glanced at the glasses on the table, half lost in thought. "A roleplay. It's never really... but I thought John might like it." He sighed softly.

 

"Roleplay." Mike nodded. "Was there any specific title to the piece?"

 

Sherlock sighed again and ran both hands through his hair. "Slutty secretary and strict boss."

 

Mike had to swallow a grin. "Slutty secretary? He would have liked that." Both men fell silent for a moment before Mike went on: "He said you should go to sleep. It'll probably be pretty late before he can get rid of the gang."

 

"Mmh," was Sherlock's only response as he swung his legs back up onto the couch, pressed his fingers under his chin again and lay there in precisely the same position Mike had found him in earlier.

 

Mike rolled his eyes and was about to leave when he reconsidered and turned back to Sherlock, who was staring at the imaginary spot just under the ceiling once again with a somewhat forlorn expression.

 

"Sherlock?" Mike asked cautiously.

 

"Hmm?" Sherlock said without looking at him or changing his position.

 

"John... he..." Mike hemmed and hawed before he plucked up his courage. "Does he treat you well?"

 

Sherlock blinked several times in a row before turning his head to look at Mike.

 

"I'm afraid I don't understand the question," he said with a hint of the same aristocratic attitude he sometimes displayed.

 

"I want to know whether John treats you well," Mike repeated, this time with more conviction.

 

A doubtful smirk crinkled Sherlock's lips. "You can't be serious, Mike. You want to know if he _hits_ me?" The smile in his eyes deepened, becoming more mischievous and at the same time more cheerful. "Oh, yes - he certainly does."

 

Mike groaned and passed his hand over his eyes. "I didn't want to know THAT. I know approximately what John's preferences are. I can do without the details." He pressed his lips together and scrutinised Sherlock's amused expression. "Aside from that. I want to know if he treats you decently - otherwise."

 

Sherlock's expression changed from one second to the next. "Why?" he asked, at the same time wary, guarded and suspicious.

 

The sudden change reminded Mike of a stray dog that had been lured with the promise of food once too often, fallen for it once too often, and ended up being kicked and beaten once too often.

 

 _'What exactly did they do to you in your former life?_ ' Mike thought to himself, and his resolve to say what he'd wanted to say became more firm.

 

"Because I want you to know..." Mike took a business card out of his breast pocket, went over to Sherlock, and handed it to him. "My card. All of my numbers. My address. I'll let my wife, Susan, know. So you can contact her too if you can't reach me for any reason."

 

Sherlock stared at the card in his hand uncertainly. "For me?" His eyes turned to Mike in question.

 

"Yes. For you. You should know... you can come to me anytime. You can always come to me if... if John... if for any reason you don't want to stay here." Mike nodded for emphasis. "No matter what it's about... you... can count on me."

 

Sherlock's eyes widened. "You'd help me? Against John? Against... your friend?" he asked incredulously. "Why?"

 

"Several reasons." Mike returned Sherlock's gaze soberly. The next words took more courage than he'd thought they would. "You're a good guy, Sherlock. You work hard and you've always been loyal. And you deserve for him to treat you decently in return. Just because you're dependent on him at the moment doesn't mean that you have to let him do whatever he wants with you. And that's why I'd stand by you, even against John. So if there's anything... you can come to me. That's the first point. The second one is that I... no matter what John's done or will do in future... I won't let any of it come before a court. If you need help, Sherlock, I'll help you - even against John - but I'll make sure you don't drag him in front of a court."

 

Sherlock lowered his gaze to the business card, deep in thought, before saying softly, "Mike?"

 

"Yeah?"

 

"You really do try to be a good person..."

 

"Why is that so strange? Doesn't everyone?"

 

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. "I just wonder... how did someone with such moral principles end up in the mob?"

 

Mike smiled thinly. "If I'd chosen a different career path, given my education and my knowledge and skill set, I'd be doing pretty much the same things I do now... cheating on taxes, skirting laws, bribing people, buying politicians, doctoring accounts... I'd just be doing it for some big business." Mike shrugged his shoulders too. "It just turned out this way."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_John and Mike had been serving the mob as drug couriers for a good half year now. Thanks to John's quick wits and Mike's cautious manner - which John sometimes called 'being a chicken' to taunt him - they hadn't been picked up by the police one single time._

 

_John especially had developed a kind of sixth sense for sticky situations, and in fact one time they'd only got away before being caught due to John's feeling that 'something was fishy'._

 

_After what John had learned from their contact - the man with the fancy shoes and the expensive watch who had recruited John in the first place - they'd proven their mettle. Now they were being offered a start in the much more lucrative - but also riskier - protection racket._

 

_John had looked for Mike all over campus already to give him the news, only to finally find him snogging his girlfriend, Susan, in one corner of the staff car park._

 

_"Hey!" he called out, watching with a grin as the two of them jolted apart. "Get a room - my eyes are bleeding."_

 

_Susan erupted in giddy laughter when she saw him and ran a hand through her shoulder-length blonde hair. An engagement ring had been glittering on her ring finger for a short while now. It was simple and elegant, yet its sheer understatement must have cost a small fortune._

 

_"I hope you have a good reason for the interruption," Mike growled grumpily. "And shut up with your 'get a room' nonsense!"_

 

_Susan elbowed him in the side. "Don't let it out on John now," she scolded him. "He can't help it that we can't afford a flat yet." Mike grumbled a little more but relaxed visibly when Susan gave him a loud kiss on the cheek. "It's not so bad... we'll just wait a little longer with moving in together."_

 

_"Isn't she fantastic?" Mike turned to John._

 

_John laughed. "Yeah, she is - no doubt. You'd have my head if I said anything else. But all kidding aside … it might be that you don't need to wait much longer," he declared cryptically._

 

_"What do you mean?" Mike asked cautiously._

 

_"We're moving up in the world!" John exclaimed sotto voce, but with barely disguised enthusiasm._

 

_"And what does that mean?" Susan inquired._

 

_"Protection money," John answered as casually as possible, but it was obvious from looking at him that he was virtually vibrating with excitement. In contrast to Victor (from whom he was still keeping it a secret because he hadn't worked up the courage to tell him yet for some inexplicable reason) Susan knew all about it and had accepted Mike's explanations with a certain degree of pragmatism._

 

_Mike wrinkled his brow. "I don't know..."_

 

_"Oh, come on... don't go all moral on me now!" John griped. "You're always acting so terribly proper! That's not even you. I heard every word the other day when you told the janitor how to cheat on his taxes."_

 

_"That's slightly different!" Mike said defensively. "At least no one's going to get hurt."_

 

_John raised an eyebrow. "They don't have to here either," he drawled back. "If everyone pays up nice and easy, nothing will happen."_

 

_Mike sighed. "You know that's not exactly my thing..."_

 

_The whole mob scene had never exactly been his thing, right from the beginning. But John's enthusiasm had always been contagious, and ever since their childhood there had hardly been a time when Mike had been able to successfully oppose his best friend's plans._

 

_That was also why he'd agreed to the courier job without any great hesitation. An additional inducement had been the engagement ring for Susan, of course, but even without that incentive, he would likely have gone along with it - even though he'd always considered himself a decent bloke up to then._

 

_For that reason, it had amazed him even more that he was able to utilise a large number of his skills in this illegal organisation, and that it was kind of fun to put one over on the authorities time and again. Each fresh delivery offered a new challenge to his organisational talents and his intelligence._

 

_Plus, it was pretty much the most exciting thing that had happened in his life so far._

 

_For a young man like him whose hairline was already receding, who wore spectacles and was carrying several pounds too many around with him … for a young man like that, who really didn't look like the typical go-getter, the excitement that his side job delivered had an allure that shouldn't be underestimated._

 

_For John, it was the money... and perhaps also to a smaller degree the power that their activities gave him._

 

_Mike knew that he himself - once he finished his studies - would have his choice of very well paying jobs in the business world. He'd have money. Sooner or later. John would also have a tidy little income as a doctor, but unlike Mike, John apparently wasn't willing to wait. John had always been like that. He wanted everything, and he wanted it yesterday. He wanted to prove his strength as a rugby player, and he wanted to shine as a doctor with his intelligence and his fine motor skills. Mike could never understand how John could risk his healthy fingers - which he'd need for his career some day - playing rugby every week, but John simply didn't want to see reason in that regard. It was probably the danger and the thrill of the risk that made it attractive to John and that made him expose himself to it week after week in matches and during training._

 

_Mike had never seen his friend as a 'healer' anyway … he probably didn't see himself that way either. The human body fascinated him. But it was a somewhat morbid fascination. It didn't bother him in the least to dissect corpses; when other students had already vomited twice, he was thinking about whether to order salami or ham on his pizza._

 

_Mike had never really understood that side of his friend. But that's not what friends were for._

 

_Although John sometimes reacted without thinking or let his temper get the better of him, he could also be methodical, deliberate and reasonable, surprising Mike with his far-sightedness and his ability to read people. An ability that generally only failed him when it came to choosing his bedfellows._

 

_Things seemed to be going quite well with his current boyfriend, Victor, however._

 

_"Aw, Mike..." John changed tack and begged. "Please come with me. They always send out teams of two, and if you don't go along they'll put me with some stodgy sop who pukes at the sight of a bit of blood."_

 

_It was at this point that Susan unexpectedly joined the conversation. "Man, oh man..." she said, shaking her head. "I always knew that medicos were a little off, but that... that's a bit twisted even for you."_

 

_"Johnny boy's broken enough noses playing rugby," Mike explained. "It doesn't bother him anymore."_

 

_"And the good thing about doctors is that they don't even need to go that far to inflict pain," John bragged. "I know exactly where I need to grab them in order to..."_

 

_"God, you two are disgusting!" Susan cried with a crooked grin._

 

_John returned the grin, showing all his teeth, before turning to Mike: "Well - how about it? Are you in?"_

 

_"Better to team up with the stodgy sop you know than to have to work with some strange sop, is that it?" Mike replied, somewhat insulted._

 

_"Is he always such a pansy?" John asked, nodding in Mike's direction. Susan giggled and shook her head. John winked at her. "I'm telling you. Women will ruin the best of men..."_

 

_"That's not true!" she said, laughing, and slapped John on the shoulder._

 

_"Ooh! Ow!" John moaned louder than necessary, rubbing his shoulder as he grimaced in mock pain._

 

_"Idiot," Susan murmured with a smile before turning to her fiancé. "Do it."_

 

_"Pardon?" Mike said, bewildered._

 

_"Do it," Susan repeated, her smile sincere. "We all know you're not going to let John do it alone. Because if something happened to him, you'd blame yourself forever."_

 

_"That's not even..." Mike started to object, but Susan cut him off._

 

_"Of course it is! I can already hear you: 'If I'd been there to watch out for him, none of it would have happened!'" she whinged in a voice meant to mimic his._

 

_John nodded. "Pretty close."_

 

_Mike sent his friend an angry glare but didn't say anything._

 

_"Hey, Mike... she's right," John said. "You're the only one who can handle my temper and hold me back if need be. I'd have put my foot in it hundreds of times by now if it weren't for you."_

 

_"Ever since I've known the two of you, you've done everything together," Susan agreed. "I know I've only heard about the swimming team and the boxing club second-hand, but don't make me remember what it was like when John got it into his head that he wanted to learn to fence... and I'm pretty damn glad I was at least able to talk you out of the rugby." She took a deep breath. "So spare us all the chit-chat and just do it. You'd never have the heart to let John go off on his own."_

 

_"Exactly," John concurred with Susan's speech and made puppy dog eyes. "I need someone to keep an eye on me. Auntie Mike, you can't leave me alone in my hour of need!"_

 

_"Okay!" Mike conceded defeat. "Okay, okay." He sighed. "Fine. I'll go with you."_

 

_"Great, Mikey!" John clapped Mike heartily on the shoulder. "I knew I could count on you. It's going to be brilliant!"_

 

_"Yeah, brilliant," Mike groaned, rubbing his shoulder, which actually did hurt after that blow - in contrast to John's shoulder following Susan's punch. "But I want to make one thing clear: we're going to be smart about it. Not like those half-wit rowdies you usually see out on the streets!"_

 

_John beamed. "You see, Susan, I knew it: Mike's the right man for the job. You'll see... we're going to make it big in this business!"_

 

_"Right," Susan said dryly._

 

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

It was past midnight when the group dispersed from John's house and he climbed the stairs to the upper storey with steps that were heavy and slow. He felt as if he'd had all the energy sucked out of him, and all he could think of was a hot shower and a soft bed. He regretted it a little that he'd sent Sherlock to bed. Even though he wasn't in the mood for wild sex, he wouldn't have minded having a warm body close to him.

 

As he walked along the corridor, he saw that the light was still on in the living room. The door was cracked open, so he pushed it open the rest of the way in order to turn off the light and saw that Sherlock had disobeyed his request. As per usual.

 

Rather than lying in his own comfortable bed - as John had instructed that he be told to do - he'd fallen asleep on the couch. John sighed. Then he went closer, sat down on the edge of the coffee table, and watched for a while as Sherlock's chest rose and fell and his breath passed over the plump, slightly parted lips and was sucked in again. He observed Sherlock's cheeks, pink with sleep, and the unnatural angle of his back and neck.

 

Why did Sherlock never listen to him? Now he was going to complain of neck pains. Served him right!

 

John gently shook Sherlock's shoulder.

 

"Mmh..." Sherlock grumbled and kept sleeping.

 

John shook him a little harder until he was successful. Sherlock's eyelids trembled, his dark lashes fluttered, and he opened his eyes half-heartedly.

 

"John..." It was more a sigh than a word, accompanied by a carefree, happy smile. Then comprehension set in, and the next moment John felt as if a feather-light, nearly invisible veil had been laid across Sherlock's face. Although his expression remained the same, John sensed a change. But maybe it was just his own exhaustion playing tricks on him.

 

He picked up the glasses from the coffee table and raised his eyebrows in a teasing manner. " _The slutty secretary_?"

 

"A stupid idea," Sherlock admitted, his cheeks tinged pink, and rubbed a hand over his face to wake up a bit more.

 

"A brilliant idea," John countered. "For another time. Where'd you get the glasses?"

 

Sherlock yawned deeply. "Thomas."

 

John nodded. "Non-prescription?" he asked, tapping the glass.

 

"Yes," Sherlock confirmed. He sat up and rubbed his eyes then moved his head from side to side, wincing.

 

"If you did what I said more often you wouldn't have that pain in your neck right now," John stated. "And now come on. Up with you." He stood up and held out his hand for Sherlock. Sherlock took it and stood, ending up directly in front of him rather more quickly than he'd expected, looking down at him through half-lidded eyes.

 

John's pulse rate increased slightly and he felt the warmth of the other body, even through his clothes. Sherlock's nose was suddenly in his hair and his lips were nibbling on his ear. But then a yawn interrupted any further caresses.

 

"All right... enough of that," John said and found he had to suppress a grin. "Come on."

 

"Where to?" Sherlock asked, although he allowed himself to be led by the hand down the hall in an unusual display of compliance.

 

"To my bedroom. It's time for us to be getting to bed."

 

Sherlock pressed his jaw firmly closed. He didn't want to yawn in front of John again. John obviously wanted to have some fun with him - he couldn't flake out now... even if he was having a hard time. God - if only he weren't so bloody tired!

 

John stopped in front of his bedroom door.

 

Sherlock gave him an inquisitive look. "What now?"

 

"Go and get your pyjamas so we can finally go to bed," John answered good-naturedly.

 

Sherlock was sure he must have misunderstood, so he asked slowly, "My... pyjamas?"

 

"Yes," John agreed with an indulgent smile. "You're not always so slow on the uptake."

 

The dark eyebrows pulled together with a lack of comprehension. It was terribly difficult to think, especially when he was so bloody tired.

 

"You really want to … sleep with me, and not...? Really just... _sleep_?"

 

"Yes. But if this takes any longer I may change my mind," John remarked dryly and gave Sherlock a light slap on his buttocks.

 

Still clearly confused, Sherlock removed his clothes in his own bedroom and slipped into his pyjamas. Through the door, he heard the muffled sounds of the shower being turned on in John's bathroom then turned off again a short time later.

 

Sherlock returned to John's bedroom, his brow wrinkled.

 

What was John planning? Hadn't he told him in no uncertain terms back at the very beginning that he only wanted Sherlock in his bed when sex was in the offing?

 

"What's that?" John asked when he saw Sherlock standing in the doorway.

 

"My pyjamas." Sherlock blinked down at himself, bewildered. Yes, they were. Those were his pyjama bottoms and one of his old t-shirts that he still wore to sleep in. "You said I should..."

 

"Why are you still wearing that foul shirt? I'm fairly certain there were pyjama tops listed on the tailor's invoice."

 

"I don't like them," Sherlock said flat out, shooting a look - dozy with sleep but at the same time both reproachful and salacious - at John's bare chest. John apparently preferred to go without a top as well and was wearing only boxer shorts.

 

"Why didn't you say so?" John wondered.

 

"I did. Your tailor wasn't interested in hearing it."

 

John sighed and said, resigned, "Come to bed."

 

No sooner were they both in bed and John had turned off the light than Sherlock was wide awake. His fatigue had disappeared, leaving him restless and a little nervous. He was hypersensitive to every sound, every movement and every breath from John. He tried to relax. John really just wanted to sleep. That should actually be a soothing thought, but quite the opposite was the case. Sherlock didn't understand what the motivation was behind it. He'd never just lain in bed next to someone and slept. He didn't have any experience with it. Was it acceptable to cuddle? Or would it be better to turn his back to John? No, that would certainly be impolite... maybe he should ask whether he... No, that wouldn't work either. If John was about to fall asleep, he shouldn't bother him. Sherlock lay on his back stiffly, not moving so much as his little finger and hardly daring to breathe.

 

Finally, John turned toward him, cleared his throat and said, "This is a little weird."

 

Sherlock exhaled, somewhat relieved. "Don't act as if I'm the first one you've ever shared a bed with in this manner." _...as opposed to me.._. he added to himself. For some reason he was ashamed of owning up to it.

 

"It's been a while anyway..." John admitted with a soft, pensive smile.

 

It hurt a little to hear that. Just as it had hurt a little to hear Mike speak of those other men.

 

And so Sherlock answered, somewhat thinly, "Neither you nor I are each other's first," making an effort to sound worldly.

 

"YOU were a virgin, anyway!" John said, laying his hand on Sherlock's stomach. It felt good. John's hand emanated warmth and security. "And if you weren't, then the two of you - you and Miss Adler - sure put one over on me."

 

Sherlock turned to John now, making his hand slide onto Sherlock's hip, where it stayed. Safe, firm... an anchor in this dark sea of uncertainty.

 

"You know what I mean!" Sherlock groused in a light tone that wasn't meant to be taken seriously. "I was a virgin, technically, but I wasn't inexperienced. And neither were you. And that's good." His voice had become quieter by the end. More pensive. More serious.

 

"Is it?" John whispered, stroking Sherlock's hair somewhat awkwardly with his other hand.

 

"Yes. I'm very glad for that," Sherlock stated. He enjoyed John's touch and relaxed further, no longer feeling that the darkness was so oppressive; rather, it was like a protective cloak spread over the two of them. "Do you honestly think I became the world's best cocksucker just like that overnight?" he joked. "No, sir. That took years of practise." He fell silent for a moment, wondering whether he should really speak the next words that lay on his tongue. He decided in favour of it. It might not be the most romantic thing to say - perhaps it was even the most preposterous thing he could say at the moment - but he wanted John to know what he thought about it and how he felt. Even though it always stung a little when he thought of John's former acquaintances, the whole thing did have a very definite advantage.

 

"And I'm very glad I'm _not_ your first... you never would have had all that experience otherwise... all the skills... the ability to command the entire spectrum of pleasure and pain so masterfully... I am the beneficiary of the fact that there were others, and that you could try things out on them and perfect your technique." He scooted closer to John and kissed his scar, following a sudden impulse.

 

"You are the first," John said after a little while, his voice raw.

 

"Yes, right," Sherlock said sarcastically, stroking two fingers over John's scar, lost in thought.

 

"You're the first one I let do that," John spoke into the darkness and turned onto his back.

 

"What?" Sherlock asked, somewhat confused, as he propped his head up on his hand.

 

"My scar," John explained. His rough whisper was barely audible, yet it cut easily through the darkness to reach Sherlock's ear. "You're the first one I've ever let touch it. You're the first one who's been fascinated by it rather than disgusted. You're the first one who's ever actually wanted to touch it and kiss it, and you're the first one I've let do it and whose touch I... enjoy." John waited for Sherlock's response, his heart pounding. He'd never gone this far out on a limb before to expose his own weakness. Never made himself so vulnerable. Sherlock wasn't saying anything. Why wasn't he saying anything? He talked nonstop the rest of the time! Why was he silent now of all times?

 

"You don't like it," was the neutral statement that finally came out.

 

"Of course I don't like it!" John shot back, irritated, and took up a defensive position. He didn't know what reaction he'd expected Sherlock to have, but that certainly wasn't it. "It's ugly. It's disfiguring."

 

"That's not what I meant," Sherlock assured him before continuing hesitantly: "You're... ashamed of it. It embarrasses you."

 

"Of course it's embarrassing!" John cried out angrily. "It's the proof that I was too stupid and inattentive and too trusting and too slow. Too stupid to notice that bastard was planning something. Too trusting to sense the betrayal. Too inattentive to notice what was going on behind my back. And too slow to avoid the shot. That scar is a sign of my weakness. A sign that I failed." The memory left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth and in his soul, as it always did. If only he hadn't started on about it!

 

"I don't see it like that," Sherlock contradicted him with that unflappable calm that he occasionally displayed, the source of which would forever remain a mystery to John.

 

"Excuse me?" he retorted snippily, and once again Sherlock's deep, soothing voice pierced the darkness. Calm and objective and full of conviction.

 

"It's a sign of your superiority. Your power. That fellow was so afraid of you that he saw his only chance in shooting you in the back. And? Did it do him any good?" Sherlock asked, and then went on without waiting for an answer: "No, it didn't. You told me yourself that you were still fast enough and accurate enough to finish him off with a single shot. Even though you already had a bullet in your body at that point." Sherlock gently caressed the ruined skin of his shoulder. "That's why your scar is proof of your strength for me," he explained with calm certitude.

 

John didn't know what to say to that at first, and he remained just as clueless for quite a while. It wasn't until he was sure his voice would sound halfway normal that he whispered softly, "I never thought of it like that before... No one's ever seen it like that before you..." He turned his head toward Sherlock, but he could only make out a vague outline in the night.

 

"Then everyone before me was an idiot," Sherlock remarked dryly. "Which leads me to doubt your intelligence and your powers of judgment just a bit. At least in regards to your taste in men." He rested his head on John's shoulder and snuggled up to him. John's arm wrapped itself around Sherlock's narrow back, as if on its own. It felt so good and so right, like nothing before in his life had ever felt. He blinked a little too hard in order to get rid of the excess moisture in his eyes. He must have got some dust in them.

 

"My brains have slipped down into my pants more often than I care to admit," John joked in an attempt to override all the emotions that were breaking over him at the moment.

 

"At least you do admit it," Sherlock responded impassively, and with a hearty yawn. His arm slung itself possessively around John's midsection.

 

"Good night, Sleeping Beauty," John said in affectionate jest, pressing a kiss to the tousled curls against his shoulder. "Sleep well."

 

"You too... my Prince Charming," Sherlock murmured with a mischievous grin that John could feel against his chest.

 

"Bloody bastard," John mumbled softly in a tone of voice that other people used for terms of endearment.

 

Sherlock sighed quietly and scooted in even closer to John, and all of a sudden it wasn't weird anymore to be lying together in bed just … to sleep.

 

Neither of them knew it at the time, but Sherlock would never again spend a night alone in his own room.

 

Two days later, Sherlock burned Mike's card. He knew he would never need it.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Greg’s appointment as _Special Commissioner of Bilateral Safety Coordination_ was only a few days old, and the taunting at the Yard still hadn't completely died down. At least the title sounded too important to be questioned, even if no one understood what it meant. Least of all Greg himself. It basically didn't mean anything other than that he was permanently at the mayor's disposal. Even before he'd been named to the post, everyone had understood full well due to Greg’s frequent visits to the _'Glass Testicle'_ that he was the mayor's protégé. At least his status had now been made official by his new title, and the suggestive innuendos - which weren't meant to be taken altogether seriously - had ceased.

 

His appointment hadn't changed anything about the nature of their meetings. They exchanged conjectures and observations, and sometimes they had tea together. Once in a while Greg was directed to coordinate the security aspects of some larger events. A duty that set him new challenges and which, contrary to expectation, he even found fun.

 

On the day of Dimmock's promotion, however, Greg received a strange call from Mycroft Holmes. Strange in that the mayor never spoke to him on the phone - their meetings were usually arranged by email.

 

"Holmes," the mayor announced himself tersely when Greg accepted the call.

 

"Mr Holmes?" Greg asked, bewildered. "What can I...?"

 

"I simply wanted to give you a piece of good advice," Mycroft Holmes interrupted him, his voice tense. Or maybe it just sounded that way due to the connection. After all, Greg had never heard him speaking over the phone before. "Scotland Yard will be receiving some new equipment in the next few days. The funding has been approved." Greg heard Holmes take a deep breath. "The equipment includes a new type of bullet-proof vest. Make sure that you get one."

 

"I'm afraid I don't understand..." Greg demurred.

 

"There aren't many of them," Holmes continued. "They're only being partially deployed at first. According to my information they're currently the best the market has to offer."

 

Now Greg began to understand. "Is there something I should know?" he asked, his voice hard.

 

"Watch out for yourself."

 

"What..." Greg was just able to exclaim, but the mayor had already ended the call.

 

Greg stared at the telephone in his hand for several long moments. "What the..." he muttered to himself. Something was going on. Something big. Something dirty. First Dimmock's promotion, which no one - really, absolutely no one - understood, and which had no foundation whatsoever... and now this call. _Watch out for yourself_.

 

What - the _hell_ \- was he supposed to make of that?

 

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_**To be continued...** _

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

 

 


	28. Damage Control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING!  
> VIOLENCE (concerning an OC) - MobBoss!John without the kid gloves.
> 
> Translation by the awesome SwissMiss!

 

**WARNING!**

**VIOLENCE (concerning an OC) - MobBoss!John without the kid gloves.**

 

 

 

**Chapter 28: Damage Control**

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Mycroft rang off and held his breath, his eye still on his phone. Why had he made that call to Lestrade? He took a deep breath and released it. He knew why. Doc Watson's threat to make an example of Lestrade in particular had shaken him more deeply than he'd thought possible. Mycroft generally avoided tuning in to his innermost feelings, but when he did so now - right now, at this very moment - he discovered an interest in a certain Detective Inspector that went beyond his objective usefulness. That interest had been awakened way back at their first meeting, and now that they were more or less working together all the time, it had deepened in a way that Mycroft hadn't reckoned with.

 

The prize question that posed itself to him now, though, was: did he want to pursue this interest or was it better for all concerned if … if their fingers never again happened - purely by chance - to touch while passing a cup of tea or a glass of water?

 

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

The nameplate on the door proclaimed that the office belonged to an import and export company. In actual fact, one of the many local headquarters of the mob was stationed behind it. This was the Lambeth office where both legal front business and illegal dealings were handled. The sale and distribution of controlled substances made up a large portion of it. In fact, Lambeth handled the lion's share of the drug trade compared to the other London branch offices. This was mainly due to the fact that the front company specialised in pharmaceuticals, which enabled any illegal substances to be smuggled in and out along with the legal goods. It was a profitable and virtually risk-free business. Until today.

 

"Barbie - quit lying to me," John said in a dangerously quiet tone.

 

In real life, Barbie was Kenneth Horszowski, who was in charge of the Lambeth office.

 

Kenneth - like John - had come to terms with his nickname. His surname was somewhat clunky for English tongues, and so he'd been called Kenneth or Ken from early on. It was only a small step from _Ken_ to _Barbie_ \- especially given that he wore his blond hair down to his shoulders, sometimes even longer. He'd been called _Barbie_ for so long now that his real name had been entirely forgotten.

 

Kenneth generally occupied the position of a low-level boss in the hierarchy, but he'd been acting as the interim borough chief for a while now. The real boss had been in a special clinic for several weeks as a result of a complex leg fracture, and John had entrusted Kenneth with the position temporarily, on Mike's advice. He'd done good work for years as one of the direct subordinates of the local boss, but Sherlock had come across evidence of fraud when checking over some invoices … which was why John and Mike were now sitting in Kenneth's office, confronting him with their findings.

 

"Mr Watson, I assure you..." Kenneth countered, only to break off with a helpless gesture.

 

"Barbie... my patience is all used up," John threatened icily, crossing his legs and laying his hands in his lap. It wasn't necessary to emphasise his words with gestures. His expensive suit, his relaxed posture and his stern expression spoke volumes. "If I don't see the most recent invoices and all the associated paperwork on this table in about two seconds..."

 

Fortunately for Kenneth, the door opened just then, and one of his young associates came in, his face pale and with beads of sweat on his forehead, and placed two binders on the small conference table the three of them were sitting around. Dave and Naresh were standing off to the side by the windows, projecting a constant low-level threat despite their innocuous appearance.

 

Kenneth opened one of the binders and paged through it hastily.

 

"Here!" he cried out in relief, his expression lightening. "Here are the bills of lading..."

 

John tossed a cursory glance at them. "Yes - those entries match what I have," he remarked, unimpressed. "But I want to see the delivery verifications."

 

"Of course," Kenneth assured him, having become calmer and more confident now. "We have those here." He pulled the other binder toward himself and found the paper he wanted after a short search. "Here you go. The numbers are the same."

 

"That's impossible!" Mike exclaimed, taking the sheet. He inspected it, took off his glasses, cleaned them, put them back on, and held the paper right up to his nose. "This has been altered!"

 

"No, it hasn't!" Kenneth protested.

 

"Nonetheless..." John inserted with chilling calm. "The proceeds from thirty g-packs of coke are missing from the receipts. And according to my records, the stuff got lost here on your end. How does that look for you, Barbie... hm?"

 

Kenneth let his head droop. "Like I diverted the coke, sold it, and pocketed the money myself."

 

"Exactly right," John agreed.

 

Kenneth looked up again and met John's eyes. "But it wasn't me!"

 

John chewed on the inside of his cheek. "Fine. Let's pretend for a moment that I believe you. What explanation can you offer, then, for the fact that the cocaine is not in your warehouse, yet there's no matching entry for the value amongst the incoming payments? Well? I'm listening."

 

Kenneth bit his lip and stared at John in honest confusion. " _Your_ numbers must be wrong," he finally blurted out. "Your records are the ones that have been doctored."

 

Mike cut in at this point. "Do you mean to say you suspect Mr Sigerson of having manipulated the numbers? Or myself even?"

 

John held a hand up to stop Mike. "No. I'm sure he didn't mean to suggest that, did you, Barbie?" Kenneth shook his head vigorously in denial. "I didn't think so," John declared with cool satisfaction. "But let's assume for a moment that my records really have been manipulated... forged. And that neither Mike nor Mr Sigerson had anything to do with it... who else is left?"

 

"One of us," Kenneth admitted, his eyes burning and his cheeks pale. "Me." He swallowed. "But it wasn't me," he said softly. "Someone's trying to set me up. Someone wants me to take the fall!"

 

"That's..." Mike burst out, but John's hand stopped him once again.

 

John's eyebrows pulled together as he considered. Then he stood up abruptly. "I believe you," he said curtly. "Mike? We're going."

 

Mike stared hard at his friend, which John noticed but ignored. It wasn't until they were in the back seat of the car behind Dave and Naresh - the latter of whom was driving - that Mike gave voice to his indignation.

 

"He's fucking with you!"

 

John looked out the window, contemplating. "No. I don't think so. I think he's telling the truth. It wasn't him. Maybe one of his people's trying to frame him. That's a possibility." John had been lied to often enough in his life to recognise the signs. Barbie wasn't lying. Or at least he believed what he'd told John.

 

Mike rolled his eyes. "All right. Fine. Let's go with your gut feeling again."

 

"No need to be jealous," John said with a wink and patted Mike on his plump midsection.

 

"Cut it out," Mike complained with an irritated grin. "And now? What are we going to do now? We can't just let it go."

 

"I'm afraid we have to," John said. "I'm afraid we really do just need to wait until the coke shows up for sale, and then we go after the sellers. Can you make sure we hear about it as soon as the stuff makes it to market?"

 

"Of course," Mike answered. "No problem. But there's something fishy going on."

 

"Yes," John agreed. "There is." _'If only I knew what...'_ he thought to himself.

 

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

The first clue to where the drugs had ended up came three days later. Unfortunately, John's people - who had caught up with the two dealers purely by accident - weren't exactly gentle with them. One of them died at the scene, and the other one was only able to tell them that they'd received the cocaine along with their assignment from a blond man before he also succumbed to his injuries.

 

When John received the information, Mike and he decided to put some more pressure on Barbie and his men, but no sooner had John slipped on his jacket than he got word that Barbie and four of his confederates had been found in an empty warehouse on the Thames, each killed by a shot to the head.

 

John took his jacket off again.

 

Someone had got there before him. And that someone hadn't wasted any time.

 

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

"Albright? What brings you here?" John greeted the unannounced visitor Thomas had shown into his office later that same day. "Such a surprise, too..." he drawled. It was supposed to mean, ' _Call first the next time_ ,' but Albright didn't react to the barb. His face was bone-white, with just two spots of high colour on his cheeks.

 

John was standing in front of the windows, as usual, dictating a letter to Sherlock - who was sitting at the desk - while Mike was going through account statements on the leather couch.

 

Mike stood up when Albright entered, but Sherlock merely glanced up briefly and then began to translate the half-finished letter into Italian, as he saw that John would likely not continue with his dictation in the next few minutes.

 

"Who - is responsible - for this fuckjob?" Albright fumed.

 

John raised his eyebrows. "Which fuckjob in particular?" he inquired with exaggerated politeness. "I'm afraid you're going to have to be more precise."

 

"Kenneth was my nephew!" Albright roared, incensed.

 

"Kenneth?" John rejoined blankly and looked to Mike for help. "Do you know who he's talking about?"

 

Mike nodded once. "Kenneth... Horszowski," he answered in a muted voice. " _Barbie_."

 

"My sister's son!" Albright hissed.

 

John's eyes widened. He pressed out a soft _'Shit_!' from between his teeth.

 

"I thought you knew..." Mike explained tensely.

 

No. He hadn't known. He hadn't had any idea up to this point what Barbie's real name was or who he was... _had_ _been_ , he corrected himself. Damn it. But he couldn't admit that in front of Albright. No way. As a mob boss, he couldn't just hire people and promote them without knowing who they were. Which is exactly what he'd done.

 

The whole thing was mutating from an annoyance into a serious crisis. He hadn't had anything, nothing whatsoever, to do with Barbie's - _Kenneth's_ \- death. Sure - it was convenient for him, because even if he couldn't pin anything on Barb- _Kenneth_ (and even if he'd been prepared to believe his protestations of innocence), the whole story had never really sat right with him.

 

He'd accepted it as a free gift that someone had taken over doing the dirty work for him without being asked, and hadn't dug any deeper. But now that it turned out that Kenneth had been Albright's nephew, the apparent stroke of luck took on a whole new meaning.

 

How many of his borough chiefs had heard that Albright had talked back to him? Almost all of them. And the same number knew that John had a bad temper that sometimes ran away with him. And when that happened, he did things he wouldn't otherwise do... bad things. He'd never actually had a relative of a troublemaker eliminated in order to rein in the renegade... but the other mobsters probably believed he would. John had to admit he couldn't fault that interpretation of his character (even if it wasn't accurate).

 

Ordering the murder of Albright's nephew in order to get at Albright... unfortunately, that was something that fit perfectly into his pattern of behaviour.

 

It wasn't unusual in the mob to go about things in such a manner, but it was never well received, which was why John had never resorted to such a highly questionable disciplinary measure. In a regime like that, everyone feared being next, which made for a poor working atmosphere and had never ended well in the long run for any boss who favoured that particular management style. Sooner or later, the boss in question would be retired permanently... to a cemetery.

 

John had always found it much more effective to kill the troublemaker themselves. That saved a lot of trouble and was more effective and more efficient than exerting pressure through threatening the well-being of family members.

 

But who would believe him if he said he didn't have anything to do with the death of Albright's nephew?

 

How would the other mobsters react... and what was almost more important... what would Albright do now? Would he tip off the police? And drag even more things about John, his activities, and the entire mob out into the light of day? Would he do that? Would the pain of the loss he'd suffered be great enough? Enough to put himself in the line of fire as well?

 

All of a sudden, John became aware of the surreal stillness in the room, and he tried to recall - with faint unease - how long he'd been silent.

 

Albright was still standing in front of him, his face distorted into a grimace and his fists clenched.

 

"I will personally ensure that whoever is responsible is found and brought to accountability," John declared firmly.

 

This seemed to take some of the wind out of Albright's sails. "You'd better do, Watson!" he hissed in a threatening manner anyway, turned on his heel and stormed out.

 

"Shit!" John cursed heartily once the door had slammed shut with a loud bang and they were alone again. "Fucking hell!" His eyes fell on Mike and he pointed his arm at him accusingly. "You!" was all he said. "You! Why didn't you tell me Barbie was that bastard's nephew?!"

 

"I thought you knew!" Mike returned just as loud. "But honestly - what kind of boss doesn't even know his own men!"

 

"That's what I have you for!" John roared.

 

"Shall I leave so the two of you can shout at each other in peace?" Sherlock's deep, calm voice sounded. "I could send Anthea in with some china. Then you can break it as well. It might help." The slightly mocking condescension had an effect like a cold shower on the two men, who regarded Sherlock suspiciously at first but then became a bit shamefaced as they looked at each other with sheepish expressions.

 

Mike was the first to speak. "Sherlock's right. It won't help the situation any for us to scream at each other."

 

John nodded. "Damage control. Who can we put on it?"

 

"Higgins," Mike answered promptly. "He'll know who pulled the trigger before the police can issue a warrant."

 

"Good," John said and took a deep breath. And all this time he'd thought everything had blown over. The dealers had been found along with most of the cocaine, and those responsible were dead. But now it had the distinct appearance as if their troubles were only just getting started.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

On a sunny afternoon almost a week after Albright's visit, John - flanked by Dave and Naresh - entered the empty office building to which he'd been invited by Higgins.

 

"Third floor, boss," Naresh said. He'd talked on the phone to Higgins during the drive over to get more details and assess any potential dangers in the building. Anyone who was responsible for protecting a mob boss couldn't be careful enough when it came to such things. "Lift doesn't work, unfortunately. There's a reason the construction company went belly up."

 

"Lucky for us," John remarked dryly and began to climb the stairs.

 

When they arrived on the third floor, John wiped the thin film of sweat off his forehead. He was slightly out of breath, but it wasn't due to a lack of exercise. Dave and Naresh were also panting. Summer had chosen this particular day of all days for its London premiere.

 

That was the reason it was not only dusty but also hot in the old, abandoned construction site. The windows had been put in, but not much else, and pale grey concrete dust already coated John's shoes and worked its way into the men's lungs with every breath of the stale air.

 

The bright sunshine actually suited John's mood quite well, as Barbie's - and the other mobsters' - killer had been found. It was a man named Charlie White - a contract killer who hung out in Maynard's circle and had been given jobs by John from time to time when it was vitally important that John not be traceable as the instigator... or traceable at all, at least not by the police.

 

Charlie's capture meant one less thing for John to worry about, and hopefully Albright would keep his filthy mouth shut. Over the last few days, the borough boss hadn't held back on the issue, and had badmouthed John to the other members of the _family_ at every opportunity. Of course John had got wind of what Albright was saying about him - and what he thought of him - and what a good boy his nephew Kenneth had been... loyal and trustworthy and just a decent kid through and through.

 

Going by that description, Barbie should probably have found a job with the Salvation Army rather than work for the mob. But John had given Albright a pass on account of his grief and hoped that questioning Charlie would shed some light on the opaque situation.

 

"All right," John said, straightening his jacket one last time and knocking the grey dust once more - in vain - from his bespoke trousers. He looked around at his bodyguards expectantly. "Where is he?"

 

"This way, boss," Naresh replied and pointed to one of three doors that opened off the hallway where the stairs had led them.

 

John stretched his neck, jutted his chin out, and gave the starting signal with a nod. He entered the room behind Dave, every inch a mob boss. The vibes he was sending out ensured that everyone present automatically drew back from him a bit, even though they were all taller than him.

 

The room had probably originally been intended as a conference room by the architects. A long wall of windows only allowed brief glimpses of the neighbouring high-rises, as most of the windows were still covered with light blue protective foil, which had only come away in a few spots. It gave the space a feeling of being underwater.

 

But John wasn't paying attention to that. His entire focus was on the heavyset man tied to a chair in the middle of the room, his face bearing clear signs of having been beaten. The four mobsters who had caught him under Higgins' leadership stood in a circle around him. Higgins himself stood slightly to one side and nodded respectfully to John. All of them were armed and broad-shouldered, which only made Charlie look even more pathetic on his chair.

 

"Charlie, Charlie, Charlie," John said, clicking his tongue in disappointment. "What have you done."

 

"I haven't done anything, Doc," Charlie rasped hoarsely and coughed. A bloody string of saliva hung from his lip. "Nothing!" he then said, louder and clearer.

 

John listened attentively, chewing on the inside of his cheek, and looked at the windows.

 

"I'd really like to believe you," he replied, his tone filled with sympathy. "But they found pictures of the dead men at your place. How do you explain that, hm?"

 

"A misunderstanding, Doc," Charlie said in an attempt at honesty. "It's all a huge misunderstanding!"

 

John inhaled loudly. His mouth became a hard, thin line. He snapped his head around toward Charlie like a cobra, making him start and flinch.

 

"Story hour's over, Charlie," John said, his tone icy. "I don't have time for this shit. You should have destroyed those pictures instead of leaving them lying around. And now come clean: who paid you?"

 

Charlie fell silent, sank his eyes and shook his head.

 

"I'm afraid I haven't expressed myself clearly enough," John remarked coldly. "If you're a very good boy and give me an answer right now, you may not leave here on your own two feet... but at least you'll have a chance of using your legs again in a year or so."

 

The prisoner's shoulders began to shake. It was clear to John that Charlie was crying.

 

"For God's sake!" he cried out in disgust. "A crybaby. A contract killer who's a crybaby... what's the world coming to!"

 

The other men laughed, and Naresh and Dave grinned too.

 

John went over to the chair, grabbed Charlie by the hair and pulled his head back. "My God, Charlie," John said, his disdain clear. "Pull yourself together and at least act as if you were a man."

 

Charlie sniffled. "It wasn't me, Doc. I swear!"

 

"If I had a penny for every time..." John muttered half to himself, then pulled his arm back without any warning and slammed his fist into Charlie's face. Charlie howled and tried to twist out of John's grip, but John held on relentlessly. "Don't make such a fuss," he spat. "I didn't even touch your nose. Your cheekbone, on the other hand... that might well be broken. And I could still break your jaw... wouldn't be a problem," he remarked cheerfully. "But that would make it pretty hard for you to tell us who sent you, wouldn't it?"

 

"Yeah," Charlie sobbed.

 

John grinned, pleased. "So we're in agreement. Charming." He let go of Charlie's hair. A relieved intake of breath sounded. "Good - let's try and think of something that won't impede your powers of speech."

 

John took a step back and looked Charlie over with a butcher's impassive eye. Charlie stared back, his eyes wide with fear. John's smile was cold.

 

"Your eyes... although... you might still need them if you were given a false name and we need to show you pictures of potential candidates." John started to walk in a small circle around the chair. Charlie's eyes followed him - as well as they could - as if he were hypnotised. "Toes, feet, shins, knees … Good idea... kneecaps are so prone to injury... Abdomen? No... bleeds too heavily. Always makes such a mess... Fingernails... anyone have some pliers? No? Shame... really too bad... and rather negligent of you. Then the fingers... wrists... arms... shoulders... yes..." He finally finished his enumeration and stopped in front of Charlie. "That's pretty much everything." He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet and clasped his hands behind his back. "Except for the crown jewels. You're not going to want to have any kids at this point, are you?"

 

"Doc..." Charlie whimpered and would have squeezed his thighs together, had his bonds allowed it.

 

John looked the prisoner over dispassionately before his gaze slid over to his captors.

 

"I hope you brought something else along instead of the pliers..." he said meaningfully. The men scrambled to present their tools. John's eyes scanned the proffered objects - which Charlie couldn't see, as the men were outside his field of vision.

 

"Brass knuckles... eh... baseball bat … so-so... tyre iron? A little old-fashioned... but why not? Naresh, my jacket."

 

John slipped out of his jacket. Underneath it, he was wearing only a black t-shirt on account of the summery conditions, along with the shoulder holster and his handgun. His eyes remained fixed on Charlie, who paled even further in his bonds. Without looking away, he handed his jacket to Naresh, who draped it over his arm and stepped back again. Then John held out his arm, and the one-metre long, rounded iron bar was promptly delivered into his waiting hand. His fingers closed around the cool metal.

 

"All right, Charlie. Last chance," John said, his voice cold and his grin at its widest and most dangerous. He now held the rod with both hands.

 

Charlie couldn't do anything other than bawl snot and tears, stammering protests of his innocence and flopping about so wildly that the chair threatened to tip over.

 

"Hold the chair," John barked out and waited until his order was carried out by two of the men.

 

He hefted the iron bar briefly in his hand, lifted it over his shoulder, stood on one side of Charlie, gauged the distance, and swung.

 

The dull thud of metal on cloth and flesh was followed by the nauseating, grinding sound of breaking bones. Charlie screamed in pain as his brain registered all the impulses and understood that one of his knees had just been destroyed.

 

John watched him pitilessly and waited - the iron resting casually against his shoulder - until the screams diminished into muted sobs before he addressed Charlie again.

 

"Okay, Charlie," he said, his tone not unfriendly. "Have you thought of anything now that you might like to share with us, or... do I need to jog your memory again?" He laughed briefly. "Although... you won't be doing any jogging for a while, I don't think."

 

The other men grunted in amusement over the dreadful joke, and Charlie lifted his head. His face bore an expression of naked desperation.

 

"Why are you doing this, Doc?!" he cried out, his voice shaking. "Why? I kept my end of the deal! I did everything you wanted! Why are you doing this to me? We never said anything about this!"

 

The moment the sound of the words died away in the empty, stuffy room, all eyes turned to John in surprise. John stood there numbly, completely blindsided, and stared at Charlie in disbelief.

 

"What kind of shit is that?" John whispered, his voice dangerously quiet. "I never said a word to you - so stop spouting lies right now!"

 

Charlie sniffled and swallowed, struggling to regain control. "It was all supposed to be secret... I wouldn't have said anything, but... okay, I know I said you could boil me in oil and I still wouldn't say anything, but... I didn't think you'd actually... This wasn't part of our deal!"

 

"Charlie... I'm warning you..." John growled. He had the feeling the dusty concrete floor underneath his feet had turned into treacherous quicksand. "I never gave you that job!"

 

"Yes, you did!" Charlie insisted stubbornly. "It was you!"

 

The statement and the conviction with which it was presented threw the situation into a whole new light. John could all but smell the uncertainty as it spread amongst his men. Questioning looks were being exchanged.

 

"We've never seen each other before!" John repeated with all the persuasiveness at his disposal.

 

Charlie laughed in despair. It sounded like the laugh of a madman and gave John goosebumps. The men's questioning looks turned sceptical.

 

"Of course you didn't come to me in person," Charlie said. "As if the great Doc Watson himself would... but someone came to me on your orders... " He struggled to take a breath. "Someone with instructions... money... the pictures you found at my place... no one was supposed to know... that was the deal... no one..." His voice became weaker and then died out altogether.

 

An icy lump formed in John's stomach and cold sweat ran down his back. He ran his tongue over his lips. His mouth and throat were bone dry.

 

"I didn't send anyone. _They_ must have lied to you. Who was it?" he demanded.

 

Charlie just shook his head wearily. "As if you didn't know it yourself, Doc."

 

"Charlie, I'm warning you for the last time!"

 

"YOU sent him to me!" Charlie roared so abruptly that John stepped back automatically. "It was..."

 

There was a sound of breaking glass.

 

A small red spot on Charlie's forehead.

 

Utter bafflement showed in Charlie's wide-open eyes before the light in them died and he was dead.

 

John hit the concrete floor hard. Naresh threw himself protectively over John. Dave shouted out orders. There was the sound of pounding feet. Dust was kicked up. John lay under Naresh as if paralysed.

 

Charlie was dead, and with his dying breath he'd accused John of having arranged the murder of Albright's nephew. Everyone in the mob would believe it had been John's act of revenge... revenge for the disparaging comments and countless jabs Albright had let fall about him in public.

 

"The shot came from that building over there," he heard Dave call out. It sounded far away... very far away... the light was so diffuse... as if they were underwater. John felt as if he were drowning...

 

"Does anyone have some binoculars? A goddamn telescope? Anyone? Fucking sun... it's right in my eyes! Get three men over there now! Secure the exits!"

 

John closed his eyes. How was he ever supposed to emerge from this situation intact? Albright was going to mutiny as soon as word got to him... and John couldn't even blame him.

 

The only thing John could do now was try to stall for time. He was under no illusion about whether the events of this fateful afternoon would be thrashed out all over the mob. All he could do was make sure it didn't happen too quickly. John needed time... time to find out who was behind this whole mess.

 

"Naresh? I think it's good now..." John murmured.

 

"Oh, right... of course, boss," Naresh said and stood up.

 

As soon as the additional weight was no longer pressing on his ribcage, John took a deep breath of relief … and then immediately wished he hadn't. Dust poured into his airways and set off a coughing fit that brought tears to his eyes. After a bit, he was able to sit up, hacking and gasping, and he knew even without looking in a mirror that he wasn't exactly presenting his best face at the moment.

 

Higgins and one of his men were the only ones left. The others were trying to catch the shooter, following Dave's orders. John could see the barely disguised suspicion in Higgins' eyes.

 

"Higgins..." John said slowly, skilfully mixing condescension with familiarity and seasoning it all with a jovial smile. "You realise someone's trying to dump this whole shitstorm in my lap. If that weren't the case... no one would have shot poor old Charlie right when he got to the most interesting part. Right?"

 

Higgins nodded slowly, and the other man copied him (following a barely noticeable hesitation).

 

John clenched his toes inside his shoes. The scepticism and mistrust were written all over both men's faces. Of course there were two explanations for what had happened... someone didn't want John to find out the name of whoever it was that had posed as John's messenger, or... John had wanted to prevent anyone finding out that he actually was behind it all.

 

The worst part was that both scenarios were equally plausible.

 

"I don't think I need to make it clear that none of this leaves this room," John said in a tone of voice that left no room for contradiction.

 

The men nodded again, but John knew perfectly well that he'd only bought himself a couple of days at most with his thinly veiled threat before the nasty rumours started to fly, as they surely would.

 

But if John was lucky, that short span of time would be enough to catch whoever it was that was trying to fuck him over here.

 

John turned to the wall of windows and took the time now to inspect the hole in the pane and try to gauge the path of the bullet.

 

He whistled through his teeth. It had been a bloody prize-winning shot. He himself was extremely skilled and experienced with firearms, yet he doubted he'd have managed it. The pale blue protective film was covering the entire window... except for one spot where it had come away and made it possible to see through. And that spot was only about two handspans wide. The bullet had penetrated the glass at precisely that point, leaving a hole behind. John squinted one eye shut and sighted through it to the building across the way. Then he glanced back at the small red spot on Charlie's forehead and came to the same conclusion as Dave had earlier. The shot must have come from the roof of the other high-rise.

 

John bit his lower lip. It was really quite irksome that such a talented marksman was working against him rather than for him.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

"You _certainly_ took your time..." a voice drawled.

 

Sebastian Moran straightened out of his crouch on the flat roof of the high-rise and unscrewed the silencer and sighting device from his precision rifle.

 

"Sorry, boss. Doc Watson kept getting in the way," Moran said in a neutral tone, speaking to the gum-chewing man in t-shirt, jeans and baseball cap who was walking toward him. The man had earbuds in his ears, connected to a smartphone whose screen he was swiping with his thumb.

 

"Anyway..." the man remarked with a strange gleam in his eyes as he switched off his phone. "That wiretap app we snuck onto good old Charlie's phone was really quite helpful." He pulled the earbuds out of his ears and stowed them in the front pocket of his jeans, along with his phone. "It let us turn on his device and listen in - all without anyone being the wiser. Now at least we know everything he spilled." He jammed his hands into his pockets and watched with a bored demeanour as Moran continued disassembling his rifle, carefully placing each part into an inconspicuous case.

 

"Jim..." Moran ventured.

 

"Hm?" the man in the baseball cap made a disinterested sound.

 

"I could have finished him off so easy … so easy!" Moran continued, emphasising his words.

 

Jim didn't say anything; instead, he continued to watch as Moran put away the rest of the pieces of the gun and closed the case.

 

"Too soon," he finally said and blew a bubble with his gum, only to let it burst with a loud pop. "At this point in time, the demise of Doc Watson would be more of a hindrance to my plans."

 

Moran gave Jim a long look before he finally nodded grudgingly.

 

"We should get out of here. They'll be over their shock by now and come looking for the shooter."

 

Jim grinned and beckoned at Moran with his index finger, indicating that he should follow him.

 

"Everything's already in place, Cinderella... your pumpkin awaits."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_**To be continued...** _

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Not much Sherlock today, but instead you get the first appearance of Jim Moriarty. And this is where the (side) plot begins that was giving me such a headache.

 


	29. It's Always What You Least Expect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation by the amazing SwissMiss!

 

**Chapter 29: It's Always What You Least Expect**

 

John called Albright from the car to let him know that his nephew's killer had been found and made to pay. Albright didn't press on what the motive had been, which was fortunate because John didn't have a lie prepared that would sound plausible enough. He'd have to come up with something. For the moment, though, Albright seemed to be appeased, and John ended the call with mixed feelings.  
  
If only he had the slightest clue what was going on here! John wasn't a coward by any measure. He'd never turned away from a fight or confrontation. But faced with an invisible, intangible threat... it was enough to give him an uneasy feeling. How was he supposed to put up a fight when he didn't even know his adversary's name? It was true, fairy tales did often contain wisdom at their core... knowing the name of an enemy gave a certain power over him. John considered his chances and decided they weren't good. It wasn't just that he didn't know who was causing all his problems - no, he couldn't even remember the name of that fairy tale. It started out with a miller's daughter who could spin straw into gold. But for the life of him, he couldn't remember any more. At least he wouldn't have to give up his firstborn if he couldn't come up with the right name.  
  
John sighed. No, there was more on the line in this case... his life... his career... Who was he kidding? He was toast.  
  
"Dave, Naresh... You're off for the rest of the night," he said to the men sitting with him in the car.  
  
Dave only gave him a quick, questioning look from the seat beside him, but Naresh - who was sitting in the front passenger seat next to Bridges - just had to turn around, his forehead creased. Naresh was sometimes such a mother hen.  
  
"Boss, I don't think that's such a good idea... You just got shot at and..."  
  
"No one was shooting at _me_ ," John interrupted his concerned bodyguard in a somewhat annoyed tone. "If a sharpshooter with that kind of skill had wanted to hit me, he would have. Bridges? Stop at the taxi stand up there." He took some money out of the inside pocket of his jacket and pressed it into Dave's hand. "Take a taxi, both of you. Go home to your families. Let Fred and Ginger know. They should come to my house and take over for the next three days. What is _Ginger's_ real name anyway?"  
  
"Marcus," Dave said, grinning in surprise. "Marcus Finney. Thanks, boss."  
  
John waved him off.  
  
"I'll talk to Mike tomorrow ... when you come back, you're both getting a pay rise."  
  
Naresh and Dave murmured their thanks, both surprised and happy, and when Bridges stopped the car, they obediently got out.  
  
Bridges piloted the car expertly back into the stream of traffic and looked back at John in the rear-view mirror.  
  
"Where to now, sir?"  
  
"Bridges... what's your first name?" John asked pensively.  
  
"That's neither here nor there, sir," Bridges neatly avoided answering. "I've always been called _Bridges_ , no matter the job. It's absolutely fine, sir."  
  
John gave him a faint smile. "My chauffeur's giving me a lecture on etiquette? I really do only employ back-talkers. Spit it out, Bridges. What's your first name? I promise not to laugh."  
  
The corners of Bridges' mouth curled up in a fleeting smirk. "It's nothing ridiculous. Really. My parents named me John. So you'll understand that I'd prefer to be called _Bridges_ as long as I work for you."  
  
"I understand, Bridges," John answered with an amused smile.  
  
"If you'll tell me now where I can take you?" Bridges asked again. "I can go round the roundabout a fourth time, of course, if you'd prefer..."  
  
"To Mike's," John decided spontaneously. "Drive me to Mike Stamford's."  
  
Bridges nodded and flicked on the turn signal.  
  
John tried to find a comfortable position on the back seat, only to give up after a while. He was much too keyed up. His decision to go to Mike's was spot on. What he needed now was to spend an evening with his friends. Just Mike, Susan, and himself... a couple of glasses of Chianti and Susan's delectable spaghetti Alfredo, made the way only she could make it. Just to get away from everything for a couple of hours. To pretend, just for a couple of hours, that they were all still 25 years old ... full of plans... full of hopes... full of confidence.  
  
Just Mike and Susan and himself... no big house, no staff, no bodyguards, and... no Sherlock.  
  
John wasn't exactly sure why... but he didn't want to face Sherlock yet, didn't want Sherlock to see him like this, didn't want to tell him everything right now, didn't want to have to look him in the eye and see concern or pity or... John shook his head. He shouldn't lie to himself. The only thing he was afraid of was seeing no emotion at all in Sherlock's face after telling him what had happened.  
  
And that was why he wanted to put it off a little longer. Just a couple of hours.  
  
 **oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**  
  
Later that same evening, John was alone in his office. He didn't know how long he'd been sitting there in his chair, staring at nothing, but it was long enough that the ice cubes in his glass had all melted. It had been nice at Mike and Susan's, and he'd felt a bit better about all his problems. It had helped to talk about what had happened earlier. After dinner, though, he'd only had one glass of wine before having Bridges drive him home. Once there, he'd been overcome once again by doubts as to whether he'd really be able to find a solution to his troubles fast enough. The sun had gone down already, but although it was almost 10 PM, he was still able to make out the wooden box on the coffee table in the blue-yellow twilight. John had taken it out of the locked cabinet that stood in one corner of the office and contained a few things his staff really didn't need to know about.  
  
The sensation of losing control, of no longer having the reins in his hands, had been a more or less constant presence ever since the unfortunate mayoral election; but since Charlie had been shot, the feeling had become stronger, and he couldn't help comparing it to a noose that was tightening ever more around his neck. John wondered whether he'd be able to pull his head back out in time.  
  
He hated not knowing what game was being played. He hated not being in charge of the game. He hated not even knowing the rules. He hated it with every fibre of his being. One false move... one wrong decision... one inadvertent remark... could have fatal consequences or set off a chain reaction with unforeseeable repercussions.  
  
John was a good chess player. He could calculate moves ahead of time, he was good at judging his opponent and was usually several steps ahead of him.   
  
But now? This? No visible opponent... no playing pieces... no stakes... not even a game board. Just a nameless threat. The feeling of powerlessness ate at him, burned in his throat and in his gut and made him feel weak. But especially now, he couldn't - no, he _must_ not allow himself any weaknesses.  
  
He knew he needed an outlet, some way to balance out and compensate for that weakness in order to restore his inner equilibrium. Right then, he needed a taste of success as badly as he needed air to breathe. A proof of his strength, of his unimpeded dominance. To have something... _someone_ ... completely under his control... that was exactly what he needed right now.  
  
The thought caused his gaze to wander back to the wooden box on the table. If he asked Sherlock for _that_ , Sherlock would certainly do him the favour; John was sure of it. Still, he'd been going back and forth with himself ever since he'd taken the box out. Was it right to ask for a favour like that? Was it right of him to demand something like _that_ from Sherlock? Of course, he'd get what he wanted - what he needed - and yet he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd be taking advantage of Sherlock's constant, boundless, willing attitude. Wasn't it more than enough already that he'd been so accommodating after the mayoral election? That he'd surrendered himself to John so completely and given him everything he'd needed so badly at that moment?  
  
It probably didn't make any difference that the offer had come from Sherlock himself that time, whereas this time John would be the one asking... or did it? Was that why he was hesitating? But he'd have to ask him... because what he needed, what he had in mind... Sherlock would never think of it on his _own_. Even as damn clever as he was.  
  
John stood up, went to the little bar, drained his glass while standing, and poured himself another. It was his third drink. He didn't bother with ice this time. The curtains over the open window billowed out slightly in the mild breeze. John closed his eyes and turned his face toward the fresh air, which already bore a hint of coolness with it, while his thoughts continued to whirl. Why hadn't he gone upstairs already and confronted Sherlock with his wishes, with his desires? Sherlock was completely at his beck and call, could see each and every one of his wishes reflected in his eyes (and in his cock), and he even enjoyed it.  
  
Why the hesitation then?  
  
John ground his teeth, then sighed and went back to his armchair and let himself drop down into it.  
  
He knew why. He had scruples about taking too much advantage of the almost naive submissiveness that Sherlock offered to him (and which John would never discourage, as it was rather nice to be so admired, practically worshipped).  
  
Having come to that conclusion, John banged the back of his head against the upholstered seat back several times. This was insane! What was wrong with him? When had he become such a softie? Was he in the throes of developing something like a conscience? Saints preserve! A conscience was just about the last thing he could use in his job. A sense of justice - yes. A sense of fair play - always. But a conscience?   
  
The door opened, and John swivelled his head to see who was disturbing him.  
  
Sherlock's now familiar silhouette hovered on the threshold, one hand on the door frame, the other on the door handle.  
  
In the last, fading light of the day, John was just able to make out that Sherlock wasn't wearing anything more than pyjama trousers - which hung scandalously low on his hips - and a dressing gown that he hadn't closed, and which had slid off his shoulder in a rather picturesque way. His chest was naked, his feet bare.

 

John took a few seconds to observe the sensual scene and enjoy the faint throbbing in his groin.

 

It was a very effective entrance, and the sight was all the more compelling because John knew Sherlock well enough by now to be aware that the pose _wasn't_ a  pose at all... it was completely unintentional. Sherlock had never tried to seduce him by batting his eyelashes or wiggling his arse. That wasn't him. He didn't use cheap tricks to fan the flames of John's desire. One look generally sufficed... and John's lust was awakened.

 

"Why are you down here?" Sherlock asked. His voice was soft and dark, and he didn't move an inch from where he stood.

 

"Don't you mean: why aren't you upstairs in bed with me?" John replied evasively, albeit in a playful manner.

 

A soft chuckle came from Sherlock's direction. He gave up his post at the door and ambled over to where John was sitting.

 

"Yes, I do... but if I said that, I'd sound like someone who was fairly gagging for it," he retorted dryly.

 

"I see..." John teased. "We can't have that. Your reputation..."

 

Sherlock had reached him by now and sank down onto his knees beside John's chair in a single, smooth motion.

 

John couldn't hold back the smile that was tickling at the corners of his mouth any longer. This was the only trick that Sherlock ever used on him. He'd figured out how much John enjoyed tilting his head down when kissing... either because his partner was lying beneath him or was shorter than him. John had understood fairly quickly that Sherlock had seen right through him in that regard, and kept finding - or making - opportunities for himself to be shorter than John … all as if by accident. It was a gesture that John appreciated, and at the same time it both touched and aroused him.

 

Now too, he did Sherlock - and himself - the favour of leaning down to press his mouth against the silently offered lips.

 

Gentle. Soft. Just a brief, intimate touch of one to the other. And yet...

 

Why hadn't he wanted to come home directly? John couldn't remember anymore.

 

For a few seconds following their kiss, a veiled, distant look lingered in those fascinating, pale eyes, but then Sherlock's gaze came into focus once again, becoming alert and attentive. Sherlock folded his hands on the arm of the chair, rested his chin on them, and peered at John intently.

 

"What happened?" he asked calmly, and John told him everything. Even how unprepared he'd been for the shot that came through the window. How shocked he'd been inside. He was almost about to tell Sherlock about how helpless he'd felt in that situation, but a strong sense of shame held him back. He knew that Sherlock thought he was perfection personified, and he didn't want to shake that faith thoughtlessly. Not unless it were necessary. Fortunately, Sherlock's curiosity spared him that fate.

 

John had barely paused before Sherlock's eye flitted over to the wooden box.

 

"And what's that?" he asked with such obvious nonchalance that John wasn't fooled for a second.

 

"That..." John said slowly, taking another sip of his drink, "… is something I have to talk to you about."

 

When Sherlock remained uncharacteristically quiet and didn't make any attempt to get up and open the box, John realised that this brilliant man was - once again - taking his words and interpreting them in the worst possible way.

 

"Go and open it," he said patiently, albeit with a small sigh. "It's not a good-bye present and it doesn't bite."

 

Sherlock gave him a sceptical look. "But it's for me?"

 

"For us," John corrected him, adding: "If you want it."

 

To John's great surprise, Sherlock stood up, took the glass out of his hand and drained it in a single swallow. Then he grimaced in disgust.

 

"Gah!" he spat, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his dressing gown. "What is that?"

 

"Gin," John answered, entertained.

 

Sherlock shuddered. "Awful."

 

"What did you think it was?" John wanted to know.

 

"White rum," came the prompt reply.

 

John shook his head. "No one forced you to drink it," he scolded in amusement. "You don't need any Dutch courage to open that box." He took the glass back from Sherlock. "It's enough for me to have thought _I_ did," he murmured, half to himself.

 

But of course Sherlock heard him. "You?" he rasped in disbelief. "Why should _you_ need a drink for courage? You..."

 

"Just open the damn box already," John cut him off more curtly than he'd intended. "Then we can talk about who needs what."

 

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, but then he went over to the couch directly across from John's armchair and sat down. He reached out for the box and pulled it across the coffee table so it was closer to himself.

 

John saw Sherlock take a deep breath before opening the lid with a quick, decisive motion. Unconsciously, John held his own breath. The box contained gleaming metal bedded on red satin.

 

Sherlock's creased brow promptly smoothed out and John was able to breathe a little easier. Good - he hadn't run screaming from the room. That was something at least...

 

"Finally," Sherlock said, his voice noticeably rough, and John lost track of his own train of thought. "I thought you didn't own any sounds after all and were just leading me on."

 

"You..." John had to swallow hard. He'd been prepared for just about any reaction... but this surpassed them all. "You aren't... disgusted?"

 

Sherlock merely blinked once then pushed the box to one side and stepped right over the table with all the elegance and abandon of a cat. When he was standing directly in front of John - who was staring up at him with his mouth hanging slightly open - he took John's hand and pressed it between his legs.

 

"Does that feel as if I were disgusted?" Sherlock murmured in a dark voice.

 

"I wouldn't exactly call it that, no," John replied, feeling Sherlock's penis hardening even more beneath his touch.

 

Sherlock leaned his head back with an "Mmmmmmhhhhh," and pushed against John's fingers a little more. John could already feel a damp spot which was growing with every passing second. "All right..." Sherlock whispered after a while. "How do you want me?"

 

John's heart was hammering against his chest. With a low growl, he pulled Sherlock down onto his lap, his legs spread, and covered the incredibly long, seductive neck with greedy kisses. His hands grabbed Sherlock's firm arse and he rubbed his own crotch against the hard, hot length behind the wet spot in Sherlock's pyjamas. Sherlock slung one arm around John's shoulders and clung to him.

 

"Just like this..." John moaned. His own arousal had increased at a rampant pace in the short time, and his trousers were quickly becoming too tight. "Zip... open my zip..."

 

"But... I thought..." Sherlock sounded completely bewildered, turning his head and looking back and forth between John and the box containing the sounds with a confused and rather longing expression.

 

"You didn't seriously think we'd do that _now_?" John said.

 

Sherlock nodded vigorously.

 

John shook his head in horror. "No bloody way. Tomorrow - or the day after. Yes. If you still want to. I said it was something we needed to talk about. Did you forget to listen again?"

 

"No... but..." Sherlock wrinkled his brow. "You didn't just want my permission?" he pressed as he finally seemed to understand. "You really want to talk about it beforehand?"

 

"Yes," John said emphatically.

 

"What for?"

 

At this point in the conversation, John couldn't do anything more than stop and gape.

 

"What for?" he echoed. "Do you even know..."

 

"Of course I know. The metal rods are inserted into the urethra," Sherlock interrupted him with a hint of arrogant captiousness. "I may not have studied medicine for several semesters like you did, but that doesn't mean I'm stupid. What's the internet for?"

 

"If you've already done all the research on the internet," John began with poorly concealed sarcasm, "then you may have noticed that there are certain things you need to watch out for. To be safe. So that nothing happens."

 

"I trust you," Sherlock said with quiet gravity and a hint of a shrug, and John was struck dumb by the sheer simplicity of the statement.

 

At the same time, the bitter taste that he'd sensed at the beginning of their conversation reappeared on his tongue. So Sherlock trusted him. But not all the way. Not completely. Because there was still that one thing that Sherlock was keeping from him. The secret he didn't want to share, that he was concealing, and for the sake of which he'd lied to John. Sherlock trusted him... but only with his body - which he often liked to refer to merely as _transport_ , and which wasn't really important to him - and not with his... John was about to use the word ' _soul_ ', but stopped himself just in time.

 

Those three words Sherlock had uttered so carelessly, so casually, and which would certainly have embodied the epitome of romance to anyone else …. they told John a different story. In those three words, John found confirmation of his assumption that he would never again find love in this world. But Sherlock was truly still the second best thing that could have happened to him. He could be himself with Sherlock. Without rules, without blinders, without a guilty conscience. Sherlock's arms would always be open for him.

 

He resolutely swallowed down the bitter taste and decided to simply forget about it.

 

Sherlock trusted him when it came to his physical security and integrity. That was something, at least. He'd never experienced that to such a degree with any other man.

 

"You know what you're doing. What can happen, after all? It's just a body... everything will heal and..." Sherlock went on, but John didn't let him finish.

 

"No!" John said, a touch harshly, causing Sherlock to snap his mouth shut with satisfying speed. "Your body will thank you when you're lying in hospital with a high fever and an extremely unpleasant urinary tract infection." He took a deep breath through his nose. "Tomorrow, Sherlock. Tomorrow night. I promise. But we really need to talk about it beforehand. All right?" He waited until Sherlock grudgingly nodded. "It's really all for your own good. You should understand what... My God, quit with the puppy dog eyes!" He laid a hand on Sherlock's cheek and gazed deep into his eyes. "And even aside from all of that... that was my third gin. I'm simply not sober enough for something like that right now."

 

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, apparently enjoying the warmth of John's hand on his cheek, and then opened his eyes a crack.

 

"And what are you sober enough for?" he murmured.

 

The way Sherlock was able to make his face look mischievous, naughty, and innocent all at the same time went beyond John's comprehension.

 

"If you'd finally open my bloody flies," John growled, "I'll show you." He groaned when his erection was finally freed and his hot skin was being caressed by Sherlock's soft fingers and the mild night air. "Now you..." he ordered gruffly and watched as Sherlock struggled to push down the waistband of his pyjamas - his teeth buried in his lower lip -, stretched the elastic and took out his erect penis. Then he paused. He held his hard shaft - its tip glistening wetly - in a loose grip. He was still biting down on his lower lip, awaiting John's next instruction.

 

It was immensely gratifying for John to see Sherlock being so obedient. His own erection twitched at the sight of the other man, whose lust was already so great that his swollen, deep red glans was being moistened by a steady stream of precome. John luxuriated in Sherlock's arousal just a little while longer... drew out his torment just a little bit more. Oh yes... it must be torture... the waiting... the desire... his hand already in the right position... and yet no relief... nothing to ramp up his arousal... and at the same time, nothing was stopping him from pleasuring himself. Nothing at all. No bonds... no prohibitions. Only one thing was missing: John's say-so. John's express permission.

 

It wasn't just John's cock that was stimulated by Sherlock's voluntary submission, but his brain as well. It was a heady sensation.

 

When would it all become too much for Sherlock? What would he do then? Disobey and wank? Or whinge? Maybe beg, for once? John didn't know. He never knew. Sherlock was refreshingly unpredictable in that way.

 

In the end, it was nothing more than a " _John_?" breathed out from between those plump lips to show that Sherlock had reached the limit of his self-control.

 

That and an arrogantly raised eyebrow to mitigate the pleading expression in his eyes.

 

John didn't want to wait any longer either. He wanted to enjoy the warmth of Sherlock's body as close to his as possible, wanted to feel his damp breath on his skin, wanted to taste the salty sweat on his lips.

 

"Then let's see if your fingers are long enough for both of us..." John said, his voice lowered, and he had to smile at the sight of Sherlock's eyes lighting up at his words.

 

With the aid of John's hands on his buttocks, Sherlock shuffled a bit closer. His knuckles brushed over John's stiff penis, and he sighed softly. Then Sherlock let go of his own cock and his fingers wrapped effortlessly around both of them in a loose hold. Both men were breathing heavily now. The warm, humid scent of arousal and sweat made its way into John's nose and mouth... surrounded him... swathed him in a cocoon of sensuality. His hips jerked forward automatically, and he heard Sherlock gasp for air. But his grip was still loose, nowhere near the firm friction John had hoped for. Could it be that...

 

"Is this your revenge for me making you wait just now?" he asked breathlessly.

 

Sherlock was cheeky enough to smile. "Perhaps," he answered, still not moving.

 

John could feel the throb of Sherlock's erection against his own swollen shaft. It was an exquisitely erotic sensation. With his left hand - which he removed only reluctantly from Sherlock's behind - he grasped Sherlock's dark curls and pulled his head back slightly. Sherlock moaned with pleasure and stretched his body. John knew perfectly well it wasn't to get away from the hold but to intensify the pull on his hair.

 

"All right," John said slowly. "You've had your fun and your petty revenge. But that's enough now. Get going."

 

"With pleasure," Sherlock sighed and passed his thumb first over his own meatus and then over the tip of John's penis. John felt how slick Sherlock's thumb was, and a hot shiver ran down his back, gathering between his legs and intensifying the lustful pull there. His hand relinquished its grip on Sherlock's hair and found its way back to his arse, where it clamped down in relief, letting Sherlock feel his nails through his pyjamas. A stuttered moan sounded, and Sherlock finally started moving his hand ... firmed up his grasp... squeezed their erections fantastically close together... rubbed them up and down... twisted his wrist on every upstroke and kept sweeping his thumb over John's sensitive tip. It was brilliant, just what John had wanted.

 

He got hotter and hotter, his hips shaking under Sherlock's weight on his lap, Sherlock's warm breath wafting across his throat and neck. A drop of perspiration ran down John's temple; he didn't know whether it was his own or Sherlock's, and he really didn't care. Sherlock's fingers found the perfect rhythm, driving John mercilessly on... further and further... closer and closer... he was almost there... he was about to feel Sherlock's semen on him... his emission mixing with Sherlock's... spurting out over Sherlock's long, nimble fingers... where he would massage it into their hot flesh...

 

John felt Sherlock arching toward him, his back trembling, his legs shaking. He knew Sherlock was about to climax. It wouldn't take long now. Soon... soon... soon...

 

"Oh God..." John gasped. "Yes... that... oh my God!"

 

And then everything descended into a blinding nothingness. Everything around him and in him surged upward one last time... spiralling higher and higher... until it all burst in a glittering rain of shards.

 

A choked sob reached his ear. He opened his eyes, lazy and sated, and saw Sherlock coaxing the last few drops of semen out of his deflating penis with an almost tender gesture. It took him a moment to understand that Sherlock hadn't ejaculated.

 

He put his hand on Sherlock's chin and gave him a searching look. "You didn't come. Why not?"

 

Sherlock returned his gaze and promptly answered, "You didn't say to." His voice was hoarse.

 

"I didn't forbid you to," John said gently.

 

"You also didn't give me permission," Sherlock retorted, biting his lower lip. His hands clenched down around his own thighs, apparently in an attempt to keep them away from his twitching erection.

 

"You poor thing," John said, half teasing and half touched. "So much unnecessary self-control... I actually wanted to come at the same time as you, but your unexpected obedience seems to have thrown a spanner into the works." He ran his fingers playfully over Sherlock's stiff cock. Sherlock whimpered and his hips jerked forward of their own accord. "Really quite remarkable... and completely unnecessary..."

 

"I thought you... you needed..." Sherlock stammered. "I only wanted to..."

 

"...do the right thing," John interrupted him gently. "I know..." He pulled the coffee table closer with one foot and placed both hands on Sherlock's back. "Lie down." He carefully supported Sherlock, waiting until his shoulders and head rested on the table and his legs hung down on either side of the back of the chair while his lower body still lay in John's lap.

 

Sherlock watched wide-eyed as John pulled his pyjamas down even further and stroked his testicles with one hand. A relieved sound, half groan and half sob, escaped his throat, and his hands scrabbled in vain for something to hold on to. John held his overwrought body firmly down by the hips with both hands.

 

"You can come any time," John said softly before ghosting a kiss onto Sherlock's moist glans, opening his lips, and taking the tip of his stiff penis into his mouth. It was the second time he'd done this for Sherlock. But the situation was different today. The other time, it had been just one part of the torment, one part of the ecstasy.

 

This time it was the main attraction.

 

"John..." It was a cry, a whisper, a prayer, a curse. "That... you don't have to..."

 

John had tried to smile around his full mouth upon hearing his name, but now he stopped what he was doing and lifted his head in surprise until he could see Sherlock's eyes, which were staring at him, filled with both confusion and lust.

 

"I know I don't _have_ to," John declared in a calm voice. "But I _want_ to."

 

Sherlock's eyes widened even further, taking on a look of awestruck astonishment. "John..." he rasped, incredulous.

 

"Relax, Sherlock," John said, caressing Sherlock's hip with his thumb in what he hoped was a soothing way, just at the spot where his bone stretched the skin taut. "This is for you. Just for you."

 

"Why?" It sounded broken.

 

"Do I really need a reason?" John returned, bent down and breathed a kiss onto Sherlock's navel, causing Sherlock's still hard erection to press into John's neck. Sherlock let out that helpless, erotic whimper that nearly drove John mad every time.

 

"Sherlock, you earned it. Not just because you were unusually obedient today, but simply because..." John had to pause there, not really knowing how to continue. How was he supposed to express what he felt for this impossible, incredible man, even despite his bitterness over Sherlock's lack of trust in him? How was he supposed to make clear to him that he was worth something? He, himself... not just because of what he did or said... that he didn't need to deliver something to even things out.

 

"… because you're you," John whispered softly, his lips touching Sherlock's skin. "And now stop thinking so much," he added a little more sternly before his voice turned gentle again: "… and just let go."

 

At that point, a shudder ran through the slender body, and John could literally feel the tension leeching away as Sherlock virtually became putty in his hands.

 

John licked his tongue across the slippery head a few times, secretly glad that Sherlock was already so aroused and stimulated that it wouldn't take long before he reached his climax. The thought struck him of how long it had been since he'd pleasured anyone other than Sherlock like this. He couldn't remember. Certainly not in the last few years at any rate. No one he'd shared his life with during that time had ever seemed worth the effort. Because it was an effort for him. As much as he enjoyed this sexual act being performed on him, he didn't like having another cock in his mouth. He was much better with his fingers than his tongue - plus, he didn't particularly like the taste.

 

Sherlock was no exception, in spite of everything else. Bitter with a trace of musk and oysters. John hated oysters. But Sherlock's utter abandon, his reactiveness and his enraptured cries and whimpers overshadowed all the unpleasantness. He moved his head up and down, all the while sucking lightly, ran his tongue around the swollen head and relished Sherlock's sharp exclamations of pleasure.

 

When John felt the ghost of a touch against his cheek, he opened his eyes just in time to see Sherlock pulling his hand back, looking aghast. Apparently, Sherlock had been about to put his hand on John's head in some instinctual gesture... until he'd realised what he was doing and that it might cross some line and make John angry. John didn't know how he should react. On the one hand, he really wouldn't have stood for being held down and fucked in the mouth... but on the other hand, seeing Sherlock flinch away hurt him more than he would have thought. Following a sudden impulse, he reached for Sherlock's hand and brought it to his shoulder, where, after a brief hesitation, Sherlock grasped the material of John's shirt. The relief that flooded through the trembling body in his lap was clearly evident.

 

A fresh surge of precome spilled over onto John's tongue, and he intensified his efforts as best he could.

 

"John..." Sherlock panted breathlessly. "John... I'm... almost there... I'm about to come... John... I...."

 

An urgent, almost desperate tug on his shirt followed the frantically blurted words. But John didn't react. Instead, he continued steadfastly licking and sucking the hard, twitching flesh in his mouth. He hadn't planned on letting Sherlock ejaculate in his mouth, but now - given Sherlock's insecurity - he'd got it into his head to do exactly that. And he wasn't going to let anything stop him. Not even Sherlock himself.

 

"John?" Sherlock groaned. "John... I... you... oh my God... you... ohgodohgodohgod... John... John... John... I... I'm coming... I'm coming... I... JOHN!"

 

Sherlock's cries gave John plenty of warning, but even so... he hadn't anticipated such a copious amount of semen. He had anticipated the disgusting taste, but just as he had to decide whether to spit or swallow (the last time he'd spit the ejaculate into a tissue), he looked up at Sherlock's face.

 

Sweaty, languid, utterly satisfied. His eyes wide open, his cheeks bright red. One hand covering his mouth and his expression one of stunned, overwhelmed wonder that he'd never seen on Sherlock before.

 

John forgot everything else around him at the sight and without even thinking about what he was doing, he swallowed down every single drop.

 

A split second later, he found himself enveloped in a suffocating embrace that seemed to involve more arms than a single person could possibly have. He tried to extricate himself, but Sherlock pushed him down into the armchair with his entire weight and kissed him frantically. He forced his tongue mercilessly in between John's lips and licked and kissed and bit and sucked until the taste of his climax was nothing more than a weak memory on John's tastebuds. Only then did Sherlock's kisses become more gentle and sensuous, the apparent number of his arms decreased, and John was able to finally take a breath. Sherlock rested his head on John's shoulder with a happy sigh and squirmed around on his lap like a sleepy, well-fed cat.

 

John let him. He found the scent of Sherlock's hair tickling his cheek surprisingly soothing. Sherlock was actually pretty heavy and he was lying in a rather uncomfortable position on John's legs, but the warmth emanating from him felt good. John's hands absently caressed Sherlock's back, moving lower and lower until they reached his naked bottom (his pyjamas had ended up somewhere between his thighs and his knees) and finally felt in between his buttocks. John paused, surprised.

 

"You're wearing a plug?" he asked, taken aback - and also slightly aroused.

 

"Mmhmmm," Sherlock said sleepily. "Since lunchtime."

 

John fingers tapped playfully against the soft plastic and Sherlock sighed.

 

"So that's why you went off like a Roman candle," John realised with a lecherous grin.

 

"Hmm... no. That wasn't the reason," Sherlock murmured, nestling in more snugly against John.

 

"No?" John was nonplussed. "What was it then? And don't lie - I know perfectly well I'm not nearly as good as you are when it comes to oral sex."

 

"You're the only one who's ever done something like that for me," Sherlock answered, burying his face in the crook of John's neck. "And I thought... I thought it was a one-off... that you'd never do it again."

 

John instinctively drew Sherlock in more tightly. The only one? That was impossible... although... it would explain a few things... for example, why Sherlock was always so hard on himself. Why should he think he was important if he'd never felt valued by anyone? So that time when he'd brought Sherlock to ecstasy with the nipple clamps and the parachute was the first time that Sherlock...

 

John pressed a kiss into Sherlock's curls and stared out into the distance.

 

He knew that sexual favours shouldn't be equated with esteem and respect. But John had the sneaking suspicion that Sherlock had only ever given and never received, and that he'd apparently accepted that as the way of the world. John automatically tried to recall all the times he'd been with Sherlock over the past few months. Had he always just taken from Sherlock and never given him anything? How had he acted? Had he - without being aware of it and completely unintentionally - affirmed Sherlock's view of the world? John swallowed hard. He wasn't sure. He probably had. But there had also been moments when he'd seen astonishment, awe, and wonder in Sherlock's face when he'd looked at him. Were those the times when John had acted differently that Sherlock was used to? Were those the times when John had unwittingly done the right thing? Were those the times that _had_ made a difference? The times that really counted?

 

John didn't know. But he hoped so.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOOoo**

 

It was July, and the gloriously sunny Sunday lured the majority of London's denizens outside. The office of the mayor, however, was an exception, being open for business even today. Mycroft Holmes had summoned Greg to him in order to discuss the general state of affairs as well as security measures for the Metropolitan Police charity ball that was to take place in a few days.

 

The blinds had already been lowered over the windows a few hours earlier in order to keep the temperature in the room pleasant - or at least bearable - for as long as possible. Because today, of all days, the environmentally friendly, chilled-water air conditioning system (its designers' pride and joy) had gone on the fritz, meaning that the heat had already built up behind the glass facade despite the blinds, and both men had taken off their suit jackets some time ago.

 

Mycroft Holmes was still wearing his waistcoat, but - in a concession to the rising temperatures - he'd unbuttoned it and loosened his tie. The result - whether intentional or not - was that he didn't present quite as _uptight_ a figure as usual. He still sat behind his desk as calm and controlled as ever, though, while Greg was so affected by the continual increase in the heat that he could no longer sit still and had resorted to standing.

 

Greg had not only removed his jacket, he was in the middle of undoing the buttons on his shift cuffs so he could roll them back. He took several steps toward the window behind Mycroft Holmes, asking himself for the umpteenth time how a person could sit with his back to such a fantastic view. He sent a long-suffering yet longing look through the narrow slits of the blinds at the blindingly blue sky. It wasn't even noon yet. What he wouldn't give for a shady spot in a pub and a cool beer...

 

Either his expression betrayed his thoughts, or - he wasn't going to dismiss the possibility entirely - he might have let out a little sigh, as Mycroft Holmes suddenly declared that he certainly hadn't intended to spend his Sunday like this.

 

Greg hurried to assure him (not entirely truthfully) that the opposite was the case for him.

 

"My wife's busy at church anyway," he added.

 

"Ah yes," Mycroft Holmes said. "Your wife is Roman Catholic, isn't she? You, on the other hand..."

 

"I left the church years ago," Greg answered before realising that the other man hadn't posed a question, much less that Greg's faith wasn't any of his business. Under the gently questioning gaze of those steely blue eyes, he went on anyway: "Since I joined the force, I've seen too much to believe in God anymore." He moved away from the window and leaned against the cabinet next to the mayor's desk. He crossed his arms over his chest and studied the other man's profile.

 

Mycroft Holmes nodded his head thoughtfully. "Perhaps not the loving, forgiving God of the New Testament. But... what about the strict, vengeful God of the Old Testament? There's a rather significant difference between ' _an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth_ ' and ' _turning the other cheek'_." He swivelled his chair around so that he could face Greg.

 

Greg shook his head firmly. "Revenge and retaliation don't lead anywhere - other than into a downward spiral of violence."

 

An acknowledging nod was the response. "A clear position."

 

"How about you?" Greg asked impulsively without even thinking about it. "What would your Sunday have looked like? There must be someone waiting for you..." It was at this point that he suddenly realised how little he knew about the mayor's private life, and how oddly silent the boulevard press was on the topic, whereas any other public personality would have been the subject of countless insider interviews and revealing stories. But on Mycroft Holmes... nothing. No juicy details about his parents, his love affairs, or … his brother.

 

"Someone... somewhere..." Greg tried to cover up his lack of knowledge, and it was then that he became aware of what exactly it was that he'd asked. He tried feverishly to come up with a way of taking back the awkward, much too personal question without being left standing there like some idiot. The shirtsleeve atmosphere had misled him to think of Mycroft Holmes as his equal and strike up a tone with him that might have been suitable for a chat amongst colleagues but was decidedly inappropriate when his counterpart occupied the office of the mayor.

 

"No," Holmes replied without any visible emotional reaction. "No one is waiting for me."

 

"Oh... well... anyway... You might have had something else planned," Greg babbled, wishing nothing more than to give himself a good, hard kick in the arse. He'd narrowly avoiding putting one foot in his mouth solely thanks to Holmes' courtesy, and now he was about to stick the other one in. It was all well and good to be curious about the man behind the chain of command... but did he have to act like such an arse while doing it? He was better than this! Even as a young sergeant, he'd conducted interrogations that had been much better thought out than this!

 

"And what might that be - in your considered opinion?" Mycroft Holmes inquired with a faintly amused wink, and Greg took heart once again with relief. His behaviour and his curiosity were being tolerated, perhaps even encouraged.

 

"I don't know... you must have a hobby. Maybe you tend a rose garden on your estate?" Greg suggested.

 

One eyebrow rose. "A rose garden?" Holmes echoed. "Why not beekeeping as well, while we're at it?! As much as I hate to disappoint you, my dear Inspector, I haven't any hobbies. I consider myself married to my work."

 

Greg smiled knowingly, albeit not entirely convinced. "Even if you don't consider it a hobby - you must meet up with your brother now and then."

 

Instantly, Holmes' expression became wary. His relaxed posture stiffened imperceptibly - Greg only noticed it because he had anticipated it and was watching for the signs. Although outwardly still intentionally casual, there was something lurking in Holmes' eyes that Greg didn't like yet couldn't quite put his finger on.

 

"My brother is a private matter. I'm sure you understand, Detective Inspector." He could virtually see Holmes raising one drawbridge after another in order to make his fortress as impenetrable as possible.

 

"Yes, of course," Greg agreed obligingly, only to studiously ignore the request a second later. "How is he then? I hope he's still alive? Considering his earlier lifestyle, the question's not exactly far-fetched..."

 

The response came a split second too late, as if Holmes had to rapidly consider his words. But what he ended up saying came at Greg from left field.

 

"Is this an interrogation, Detective Inspector?"

 

"Do you feel like it is?"

 

And then something unexpected happened. Mycroft Holmes laughed. Little laugh lines crinkled the corners of his eyes, and his eyes flashed with amusement. An overall very appealing look.

 

"Your methods could do with some... improvement," Holmes finally answered with a charming smile that Greg didn't exactly have anything against. "If you attempt to extract confessions from all of your suspects in such a manner, I'm extremely surprised at your high clearance rate."

 

An insult and a compliment at the same time.

 

Greg didn't really know what to make of that. He'd simply wanted to find out something about Sherlock Holmes because...

 

"I hope the next generation of Scotland Yard's finest are trained better than that," Holmes continued, still smiling. "Now what about the preparations for the summer charity ball?"

 

Greg had to acknowledge and allow the clever diversionary tactic - because that's exactly what it was.

 

"Everything's lining up like ducks in a row," he said before launching into a detailed explanation of the various points. He concluded by saying, "I reckon we've thought of everything."

 

"Yes..." Mycroft Holmes nodded pensively. "I'd say so as well." He didn't seem to be entirely satisfied, however.

 

"Is there something I should know?" Greg pressed.

 

"Why ever should you think I was keeping something from you?" Holmes asked with a forbearance that didn't entirely cover up his indignation. It was an attitude that Greg had seen too often in his superiors to fall for it again.

 

"Well... I don't know what makes me think of it either... maybe because you wanted me to make sure to get one of those bullet-proof vests. Which I _didn't_ do, by the way, since my days as a patrol officer are over and the boys on the streets really need that modern stuff more than I do."

 

Holmes bit his lip briefly. It was an unconscious reaction that he apparently hadn't been fast enough to suppress - Greg was certain of that.

 

"I did tell you..."

 

"Yeah, I _know_ what you told me," Greg interrupted him bluntly. "On the _phone_. You even _called_ me just to tell me. You never call me. Sorry if that makes me a bit suspicious. My interrogation methods might be deficient in your opinion, but my instincts are still in perfect working order, thanks much."

 

Holmes' gaze faltered and fell away from Greg's angry glare.

 

"You want answers that I can't give you."

 

Greg snorted. "' _I can't'_ lives just down the street from _'I won't.'_ I learned that at some training seminar."

 

Holmes gave him a pained smile. "You're very perceptive, Inspector."

 

"The country bumpkin look's misleading," Greg retorted waspishly.

 

"You shouldn't hide your light under a bushel."

 

Greg had already opened his mouth to reply, but he snapped it shut again. Was that an actual compliment? Or even an attempt at a... come-on? What the _hell_ was he supposed to say to that? But before he could come up with anything, his counterpart continued speaking.

 

"How satisfied are you with the current crime rate?"

 

Greg blinked several times to find the right track again, and it wasn't until he was halfway through his answer that he realised that Holmes had masterfully changed the subject again for the second time in a row.

 

He ground his teeth inwardly. That wasn't going to happen to him a third time. He wasn't going to let himself be played for a fool again.

 

"Overall, things aren't so bad," Greg concluded his brief report. "Violent crimes are on the decline, robberies as well. It's got pretty quiet. Almost too quiet, you'd think... if it weren't for a sharp increase in the death rate in certain quarters." Greg studied the mayor closely. He didn't intend to miss a single blink, twitch, or any other telltale movement. But there was nothing. Holmes' face was like a calm lake in the middle of the woods, its flat, mirror-like surface undisturbed by a single ripple. A peaceful image - and yet the reflection blocked any view of the lake's dark depths... any chasms that might lurk there remained hidden from the observer.

 

"Of which quarters are you speaking, Detective Inspector?" Holmes was the picture of ignorance.

 

"The mob," Greg stated flatly, although he was certain that Holmes knew damn well what he was talking about. "The lads are knocking each other off left and right, and having a field day doing it. If it weren't summer already, I'd say Doc Watson was doing some spring cleaning."

 

"Is that right?" Holmes remarked in a neutral tone.

 

"Yeah, it is. But you probably know more about all that than I do."  
  


"How should I?" Holmes responded with a bright, innocent smile, but Greg wasn't fooled. He could see the careful restraint behind the smile.

 

"Dimmock's promotion," Greg said candidly. "That was you, wasn't it?"

 

"I'm afraid I really have no idea what you're getting at. What does Dimmock have to do with the mob and spring cleaning?"

 

"It's simple," Greg answered promptly. "Ever since Dimmock's been in his new post, all the investigations involving the mob are hitting dead ends. Witnesses are clamming up, evidence is disappearing... do I have to get any more graphic?"

 

"No, I think you've said more than enough. Have you shared your thoughts on this particular issue anywhere else?"

 

"No, I …"

 

"Then I ask you now to refrain from doing so in future and keep your suspicions to yourself."

 

Greg nodded slowly. There was a tightness around his mouth. "Don't worry. No one will find out from me that you made a deal with Doc Watson," he said with bitter sarcasm.

 

He had to hand one thing to Mycroft Holmes: he really played the clueless sap well. Not a single blink to betray him. If Greg weren't fairly certain he was spot on with his assessment and something very foul was afoot, he would have got cold feet right about now and started apologising.

 

"What makes you think that _I_ , of all people, might have made a deal with Doc Watson?" Holmes asked, all polite interest.

 

"I'm happy to lay it out for you. Won't take but a minute." Greg held up one finger. "First: Dimmock's promotion, which doesn't make a lick of sense to anyone. Second..." Another finger joined the first. "The mobsters associated with Doc Watson are in the middle of a large-scale cleanup of the Chinese and the Russians." He lifted a third finger. "And third: all the investigations of those cases have remained inconclusive. Although the overall crime rate is sinking, our clearance rate with this mob mess is a joke. And by asking the question in the first place, you all but admitted that there really is some kind of deal in place with Doc Watson."

 

Holmes appeared to be mildly amused. "And how do you conclude that _I_ was the one to initiate all of that? Anyone else could just as easily be behind it."

 

"Easy," Greg declared, full of confidence. "Because, as I recently discovered, the first name of Watson's dubious new advisor - you know, that bloke Sigerson - well, I found out his first name's _Sherlock_."

 

"I see," Holmes said, shrugging his shoulders lightly. "So?"

 

"Unusual name, don't you think?"

 

"It is uncommon, I agree."

 

"Other than your brother, I've never known anyone else to have that name," Greg insisted.

 

Holmes gave him a greasy smile. "It really is an extremely curious convergence of names. A very odd coincidence."

 

Greg shook his head grimly. "Mr Holmes, I don't believe in coincidences. The universe is rarely so lazy. Your brother..."

 

"My brother..." Mycroft Holmes leaned forward in his chair and continued very insistently: "My brother is not worth your time. Believe me."

 

Greg took one step forward so he could lean one hand on the mayor's desk, bringing their heads almost to the same height.

 

"Jealous?" he blurted out before his brain had time to censor his tongue and his vocal cords.

 

It was one of those moments in which anything seemed possible. One of those moments when anything could happen. A cool, steel-blue gaze clashed with glittering, dark brown eyes, held fast, dug in, and fused with them. All of a sudden, the air between the two men was so thick that Greg didn't think it would be a problem to cut it into slices. Someone had apparently removed all the oxygen from the room as well, as Greg was suddenly having an incredibly difficult time catching his breath.

 

Neither of the men moved, and yet it seemed to Greg that they were being pulled toward each other … like magnets... inexorably.

 

It was quiet.

 

So quiet.

 

But then a single blink was enough to destroy the moment. One blink and the moment was over.

 

Nothing had happened, yet everything had changed.

 

Greg stepped back from the desk. The palms of his hands were damp. It was the damn heat. He looked down at Holmes, who was watching him with an inscrutable gaze. He appeared so cool and relaxed, while Greg was irritated at the feeling that he was all rumpled and in disarray. And so he decided to pick up the conversation again in the hope that Holmes' Teflon coating would develop a couple of cracks. How did the man do it? Everything seemed to run right off him; nothing seemed to shake him. Any mention of his brother was the only thing that led to a display of Mycroft Holmes' nerves. And wasn't that damn interesting.

 

"Why don't you just admit that this Sigerson is your brother Sherlock, and that he has something to do with your deal with Doc Watson?"

 

A smile that Greg didn't see any reason for curled the corners of the other man's mouth.

 

"Gregory," Mycroft Holmes began before pausing. "May I call you Gregory?"

 

Greg knew his mouth was hanging open, but he couldn't help it. Did the mayor really just...

 

" _Greg_ ," he answered mechanically. "I prefer _Greg_."

 

"Gregory, then..." Mycroft Holmes said, unperturbed.

 

"Mycroft..." Greg tested the other man's name. It felt odd. And yet... He shook his head firmly. "Do you really think I haven't noticed you trying to distract me the whole time?"

 

"I admit I'm running out of strategies," Mycroft made the unusually frank admission. "You're astonishingly obstinate once you've sunk your teeth into something."

 

Greg couldn't help the little smirk that appeared on his lips upon hearing those words. "I'm sure you'll think of something."

 

"I'm afraid not..." Mycroft answered lightly. "I've rather exhausted my repertoire, other than fisticuffs. But a scuffle is out of the question, as I'd certainly end up on the losing end of a physical confrontation. I don't believe I'm quite up to your par in that regard."

 

"Even if I do outmatch you... maybe I'd let you trounce me. Who knows?" Greg shot back in a casual tone. Inside, though, he was desperately wondering what he was doing. Was he flirting with Mycroft Holmes? And if so - why was he spouting such bullshit? He could really do this a lot better! The prize question, however, wasn't ' _was he flirting with Mycroft_ ', but rather: ' _was Mycroft flirting with him'_?

 

Had it been any other, normal man, Greg would have known whether their banter could be termed flirting or not. But where Mycroft Holmes was concerned, the term ' _normal_ ' was insufficient - if not wholly inaccurate - on several levels.

 

Mycroft leaned his head back and crossed his legs. His hands were folded under his chin.

 

"A tempting offer," he said with cosmopolitan nonchalance. "Perhaps we can come back to it some other time. When the air isn't quite so humid as it is today."

 

"Speaking of 'coming back to'... Your brother..." Greg started out hopefully, shoving the question of _flirting vs. not flirting_ into the furthermost corner of his mind. He could wrack his brains over it some other day. But he fully intended to take advantage of the current situation. Maybe the relaxed, almost playful atmosphere between them would have a positive effect on Mycroft's close-mouthed, oyster-like attitude. Greg hadn't entirely given up the hope of getting some answers to his questions and shedding light on things. There was too much cop in him to just let things lie.

 

Mycroft sighed.

 

"I've already re-directed you away from the topic several times. Why can't you simply let it go?" Before Greg could formulate an objection or give a reason for why that wouldn't be a good idea, Mycroft was already continuing: "Have you come up with a plan for the paramedics' assignments at the next football match? Do you have enough manpower at your disposal?"

 

"I..." Greg said. Then he cut himself off. This was apparently not the day for answers. Greg surrendered. For the time being. "Yes. It's fine. But I could still..."

 

The subjects of _Sherlock_ and _the mob_ didn't come up for the rest of the meeting.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_**To be continued...** _

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

There. A new chapter. 23 pages.

And yes - we will be coming back to the sounds in the next chapter! Here's some information to refresh your memory:

 

[http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sound_%28medical_instrument%29](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sound_\(medical_instrument\))

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if I will be able to post the next chapter on Monday as usual. Because... London is calling and Hamlet! - I'm coming!!! I can't promise that I will have internet access. But I'm home next Tuesday evening and if I have to, I will post it then – with a delay of one day. I hope you will/can forgive me.


	30. Turning Points - Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation by the most awesome and brilliant SwissMiss.
> 
> And now... I guess you'll all want to know about Hamlet.  
> I will write more about it once I'm back at home. Currently I'm still in London. Just this: it was an unforgettable evening. The stage design was beautiful. Hamlet's mother was very impressive and BC gave everything. Stage Door was a little bit disappointing - no autograph for me but I managed a few nice pictures of him. I've posted them already on my tumblr. (#london2015 #hamlet)

 

**Chapter 30: Turning Points, Part 1**

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

The next morning, John and Sherlock were already at work in the office when Mike came in. Sherlock was sitting at the desk with John standing next to him, reading over his shoulder as he typed away at the keyboard of a laptop computer.

 

"And now tell those arsewipes they can..."

 

"No, John... I'm certainly not going to write ' _arsewipes_ '. South Americans don't usually take well to things like that," Sherlock objected calmly. "But I could..."

 

But John wasn't listening to Sherlock anymore, having turned his attention to Mike, who had entered the room with his phone to his ear, giving monosyllabic replies.

 

Sherlock blinked up from his task as well and watched as Mike shrugged his shoulders, said good-bye to the person on the other end of the line, and ended the call with a little sigh.

 

"Well?" John asked simply, standing up a bit straighter next to Sherlock's chair (which had at one time been _his_ chair). The single word sufficed. Mike knew right away that John wanted to know whether the mysterious shooter had been found who was responsible for Charlie's death.

 

"Nothing," Mike said with regret.

 

John nodded slowly. "What about the police? Not that their investigation could possibly lead anywhere, but still..."

 

"Nothing there either," Mike answered, shrugging again.

 

"What do you mean, nothing?" John pressed.

 

"They haven't even found him yet," Mike explained phlegmatically. "I mean, you left him in that abandoned construction site. Who knows how long it will take before he's found. Poor old Charlie didn't have anyone who might miss him. Or at least no one's looking for him."

 

It seemed the most natural thing in the world to seek out Sherlock's eyes following that remark. John looked down at him and their gazes found each other immediately. Sherlock must have felt the need to look at John as well.

 

They just stared at each other for several seconds. Then Sherlock made a little, indeterminate sound in the back of his throat and parted his lips slightly. John would only have needed to lean down and take the kiss that was being offered so readily. But rather than bending his head, John put his hands around Sherlock's upper arms and pulled him up. Surprise flickered in Sherlock's glowing eyes. But the moment he was standing in front of John, felt John's arms around his body, saw the head tilted slightly backwards in front of him and the single eyebrow raised in a way that was both tease and dare, he was lost: he forgot his surprise, and he unhesitatingly lowered his lips to the narrow mouth for a deep kiss.

 

Sherlock's hands rested gently against John's cheeks, lifting his face, holding it in place as his mouth found John's lips over and over again and his intent gaze said more clearly than words ever could: ' _Yes, I would miss you._ '

 

"I'd miss you too," John whispered gruffly, once Sherlock let him have enough air to do so. "Terribly."

 

"I'd miss you too, Johnny-Boy," Mike's amused voice sounded from the background. "Are you going to snog me now too?"

 

John laughed and relaxed his grip on Sherlock a bit, although he didn't let go.

 

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" he tossed back over his shoulder at Mike.

 

"No," Sherlock protested, his voice soft but no less clear, and tightened his hold on John. "No, you're not going to do that."

 

"Oh-ho!" John said, grinning. "Is someone trying to tell me who I can kiss or not?"

 

Sherlock's face took on an almost defiant expression, but there was a flash of uncertainty behind it, wondering whether he'd gone too far. He knew that John and Mike were just having fun, but the thought that John might kiss someone else was suddenly completely unbearable.

 

"Don't worry," Mike piped up again. "Johnny hasn't been interested in anyone else in months. He almost bit my head off when I tried to get him interested in a really fit bloke," he went on crudely, with a broad grin.

 

Sherlock stared at Mike, wide-eyed, before looking down at John. His gaze was full of scepticism, but also a touch of hope.

 

"Is that true?" he asked, a little stern but mostly full of an uncertainty he didn't want to let show yet couldn't completely hide.

 

"Yeah," John confessed with a lopsided smile. "Yes, it's true. I'm afraid you've ruined me for anyone else, once and for all. Are you happy now? Is that what you wanted?"

 

A hot pink tinted Sherlock's cheeks. "Yes," he blurted out breathlessly. "I want you only to want me."

 

Mike, who had watched the exchange with both disbelief and amusement, thought it was about time to remind the other two of his presence.

 

"Gentlemen!" he called out with playful severity. "Please... not here. You can go upstairs for _that_." When he saw Sherlock's eyes light up with hope, he added a firm "later" to his statement. "We need to do some work now."

 

John and Sherlock still stood between the desk and the bookshelf, intimately entwined, neither of them giving any indication of moving.

 

"What are you doing to me..." John murmured so softly that Sherlock wasn't sure he'd heard the words correctly. "All right," John then said more clearly, rolling his eyes in a comical manner. "You heard Mike. Back to work."

 

To Sherlock's regret, John released their embrace... but not without first giving him a deep, searching look that Sherlock couldn't quite parse.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

"Today," John said at lunch, sending Sherlock a look across the table.

 

"Today?" Sherlock's eyes lit up, only to promptly darken again. "Finally! You said ' _tomorrow_ ' three days ago," he complained.

 

John knew what he'd promised Sherlock, but there had simply been too much to do. He hadn't been able to get his head clear. But now it was Saturday, their most urgent business was all taken care of, and Mike could handle the rest himself. John therefore didn't have so much as a twinge of a guilty conscience when he made a point of placing his phone firmly on the table and turning it off.

 

"Finish eating, drink two more glasses of water, and then go take a shower," John instructed. "Just like we discussed, all right?"

 

"Yes, John," Sherlock said in a rare moment of obedience.

 

John nodded and smiled at Sherlock. The last few days hadn't been completely wasted: John had spent them making sure Sherlock was informed of all the dangers and risks. He'd prepared him as far as possible for this particular kind of sexual pleasure and explained that the very restrictive bindings he was going to be subjected to had the sole purpose of preventing him from injuring himself. It had been slightly problematic to get everything across to Sherlock, because every time they talked about it, Sherlock got an erection during the course of the discussion and was too distracted to pay attention to what John was trying to tell him. He just stared at John's lips with a glassy gaze and kept nodding absent-mindedly.

 

One time, John had simply stuck him in the shower, fully clothed, and turned on the cold water. Sherlock had hissed like an angry cat, but when John threatened to call off the whole thing, he'd settled for simmering quietly to himself.

 

Although Sherlock should have known that it was only an empty threat. John would _never_ have been able to go through with it.

 

Following lunch, while Sherlock took a shower, John went into his bedroom and slipped into a more comfortable pair of trousers and a white t-shirt. He already had everything he needed laid out on a tray on the night stand: disposable gloves, a special disinfectant, paper towels, a special lubricant and - in a covered metal dish - the freshly sterilised sounds. John closed his eyes for a moment. His pulse was already elevated. What would it be like when he had Sherlock in front of him, helpless yet completely willing...

 

He took several deep breaths through his nose. Then he went to a cupboard, took out the ropes and belts he would need to immobilise Sherlock and carried everything into the living room.

 

The dining table had already been cleared and the room aired. John set the bondage things down on the couch and went back to the bedroom to get the tray. Just as he laid it on the table, Sherlock appeared in the doorway. He was naked, his skin practically shining with cleanliness. His hair, still damp, formed little curlicues at the nape of his neck.

 

The word ' _divine_ ' popped into John's head.

 

Yet despite the fact that Sherlock presented his unclothed body with an everyday lack of concern, he remained where he was on the threshold, indecisive and almost apprehensive. John swallowed hard. A bitter taste rose to his tongue.

 

"Did you change your mind?" John asked as neutrally as he could. No. He wasn't going to force Sherlock. He wasn't going to try to talk him into it. He'd do without it if he had to. Yes. He would. It wouldn't be easy. But to his relief, Sherlock shook his head forcefully, and John took a deep, cleansing breath.

 

"What is it then?" he wanted to know, deliberately lowering his voice. "How can I help you, Sherlock?"

 

Sherlock moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue, and John felt his penis begin to swell even at that simple gesture. What was it going to be like when...

 

"It's just that... I..." Sherlock hemmed and hawed before making himself speak. "I want a _safe word_. A different one... than I gave you the last time. Is... is that all right?"

 

"Of course that's all right," John said. He didn't know why his throat was closing up all of a sudden. Was this sentiment? In any case, he was glad Sherlock had finally understood that he was _important_ and was starting to take better care of himself. "That's good. Very good, in fact."

 

Sherlock's relief was all but tangible, and John realised that this impossible man had been worrying over nothing again.

 

"Come here," John said gently, holding out his hand to Sherlock. Sherlock took it with a little sigh and held on. Nothing more than that, though. John looked down at their hands in surprise. "I'd thought you'd wrap yourself around me like an octopus by now... but if not..."

 

A mischievous grin flitted across Sherlock's lips. "But John... then I'd have to shower again. Some fibres from your clothes might stick to my penis and..."

 

"Cheeky bastard," John scolded him and let go of Sherlock's hand. "But I'm pleasantly surprised that you actually listened for once." He paused for a moment. "Do you want to tell me your safe word now?"

 

Sherlock nodded. "Vatican cameos."

 

"Vatican cameos," John repeated. "A bit complicated - but it's fine. I'll remember."

 

"I'll probably never use it, but I thought as it was so important to you..." Sherlock babbled on until John laid a finger across his lips to stop him.

 

"It's all fine, Sherlock," John soothed him. "Shall we begin?"

 

Sherlock exhaled with a sigh. "Absolutely."  
  


John smirked. "Anyone else would have said, ' _yes, please_ '."

 

Sherlock shot him a rather condescending look. " _Anyone else_ wouldn't even be here anymore because you would have been bored to tears by them."

 

John had to bite his lips in order not to burst out laughing. It would be difficult for anyone else to match Sherlock's unparalleled combination of arrogant overconfidence and perpetual insecurity. Without responding to the remark, John pointed at the coffee table.

 

"Lie down - the way I told you."

 

Sherlock lay down on his back on top of the table, stretched his arms out over his head and grasped his lower arms with his hands. He bent his splayed knees and placed his feet flat on the floor. Fortunately, the table was just the right height for him to do so, and long enough that Sherlock fit on it more or less comfortably.

 

"Is it good like that?" John asked, inserting a thin pillow under Sherlock's head.

 

"John, I don't need a pillow," Sherlock protested. "We didn't..."

 

"Did I ask for your opinion?" John cut him off abruptly. It was time to start shortening the reins a bit. "What you need or don't need is for me to decide."

 

Sherlock's pupils dilated. "Yes," he whispered, spreading his legs just a bit more.

 

"That's better," John growled, although not in an unfriendly way, and began to bind Sherlock's lower arms together. He took his time and kept checking whether the ropes cut too much into Sherlock's skin, and whether his blood was still flowing. When he was finally satisfied, he tied the ends of the ropes to the legs of the table.

 

Sherlock pulled on the ropes to test how strong they were and when he found that he wasn't able to escape, his respiration increased and his cock started to harden.

 

"Looks like someone's eager..." John said with a lascivious grin, and tied Sherlock's legs to the table as well. Now all that was left were the two extra-long leather belts, which John passed through underneath the table. He laid the first one across Sherlock's abdomen, pulling it as tight as he could without impeding Sherlock's breathing, and closed the buckle. He waited through several of Sherlock's quick breaths before asking, "Is it good like that? Are you getting enough air?" Sherlock nodded, and John wrapped the second belt around Sherlock's thighs. When he was done, he stepped back and admired his handiwork.

 

Sherlock lay before him... naked... helpless... and more than willing. A small drop of precome already glistened just underneath Sherlock's navel, even though his penis wasn't fully erect yet, lying fat and meaty against his lower abdomen. There was a trace of fear in his wide-open eyes, but John knew it was just the soft prickle of uncertainty... the little thrill of the unknown. And yet it was a heady sensation for John to see Sherlock - who usually wasn't afraid of anything - with jittery eyes for once, even if they were wide and dark with desire at the same time.

 

It was like an image from heathen times... a human sacrifice on the altar. Tied down. Offered up. The youth fully aware of what an honour it was... chosen... called to appease the gods with his sacrifice. And yet... the fear... so alluring, so exciting, so empowering. And there was something else... the trust... the absolute trust in those fascinating eyes.

 

John didn't know exactly what role he played in this scene. Was he the high priest intended to enact the cult ritual, prepared to initiate something holy... or was he about to defile something exalted, to tear it down to his level and desecrate it over and over again? No matter what it was... it was bloody hot.

 

When John pulled a chair over to sit next to Sherlock and readied the tray beside him, he recalled that, way back at their first meeting, he'd wanted to break Sherlock. John closed his eyes just for a moment as the memory threatened to overwhelm him.

 

Today he was glad - so glad - that he hadn't succeeded, even though he'd always succeeded in everything he'd set his mind to. He was secretly grateful that if he had to fail at something, it should be this. Even though Sherlock had said John had succeeded back then - that wasn't the whole truth. Rather, the truth was that Sherlock was strong... much stronger than he thought he was. John was attracted by that subconscious strength as well as by Sherlock's ability to submit himself completely... attracted, fascinated... and aroused.

 

But then, without any warning, he was suddenly hit by the desire for Sherlock to finally trust him. Completely. Wholeheartedly. To tell him everything... to confess everything... John mercilessly choked off the unbidden thought. He wasn't about to get Sherlock's complete trust today... but at least Sherlock was going to entrust his physical self to John completely. Because that was exactly what John had needed for days now... Sherlock's surrender... Sherlock's pain... Sherlock's pleasure.

 

He placed his tools almost reverently on the table between Sherlock's spread thighs. A paper towel, the disinfectant spray, the lubricant. He lifted the lid of the metal basin and put on the disposable gloves. He reached methodically for Sherlock's half-hard penis, sprayed some of the disinfectant on the head, heard Sherlock inhale sharply, and then wiped it clean with a paper towel and a fiendish grin. John picked up the lubricant, squeezed gently on Sherlock's glans until the opening to his urethra gaped open a bit and dribbled some of the gel inside. Sherlock was panting softly. John could hear the ropes creaking, but Sherlock's lower body remained as immobile as John had planned. With his left hand, he took the thinnest of the metal rods out of the metal dish and held it up over Sherlock's stomach. Only now did he look at Sherlock.

 

Wide-open eyes stared at the thin, rounded, slightly bent piece of metal, as if mesmerised. Sherlock's lips were parted slightly, his breaths shallow and quick.

 

"Do it," Sherlock whispered breathlessly. "Do it now."

 

John gave him a broad smile. "You're going to wish you said ' _please_ ' for once."

 

Without any further warning, he placed the end of the rod against Sherlock's opening and carefully guided it into his urethra. It slid in practically on its own. John held onto the end, making sure it didn't go too far. The thin rods, especially, were prone to getting into areas where they could cause serious injury. John had only been privileged to engage in this two other times, and those memories paled in comparison to what was happening here and now. Only a quarter of the rod extended from the small slit now; the rest was touching a part of Sherlock's body that had never been touched before. It was an incredible moment.

 

"Oh, God," Sherlock gasped. "Oh... my... God..." The ropes creaked again, and John's eyes tore themselves away from Sherlock's penis to wander up to his face.

 

Sherlock's mouth was open, his eyes appeared to be nothing more than coal-black pupils, his cheeks were flushed, and small goosepimples decorated his shoulders. Horror, lust, pride, and helplessness were all reflected in his face. John's _treatment_ caused the blood to pool in Sherlock's semi-erect cock, making it harder and harder until John was holding a thick erection in his hand.

 

Desire throbbed in John's groin, and he bit down on his lips. He couldn't lose control yet. Not yet. He still had to concentrate. He owed it to Sherlock. But later... later, all bets were off.

 

John cautiously pulled the metal rod back out of Sherlock's penis, and Sherlock gasped. Once the rod was completely removed, Sherlock's cock twitched slightly once and the small opening closed up again.

 

"That was just the beginning," John said softly, let the thin piece of metal drop casually onto the tray, and took the next one out of the dish. He dribbled some more gel onto the head of Sherlock's penis and rested the end of the rod against the opening. "Ready?" he asked, only to let the sound slide into the hole without waiting for an answer.

 

Sherlock couldn't process what was happening. It was too much. It was too little. It burned. It squeezed. It was all horrifyingly arousing.

 

His muscles stiffened and quivered. His hips wanted to thrust forward - into that sweet, sweet pain... and at the same time he wanted to get away from John's hands, which were holding his erection in such a matter-of-fact - almost dispassionate - manner. Sherlock didn't know what to do with himself. He was glad, now, for the bonds, which he no longer regarded as a restriction, but an anchor. He'd truly believed that the sperm-stopper that John had used on him several times already would have prepared him sufficiently for this, but that had been a massive miscalculation. Nothing was sufficient to prepare a man for this kind of stimulation. Nothing. Nothing at all.

 

The somewhat wider sound slid almost as easily into his urethra as the thinner one had. The metal was cool, and yet Sherlock felt like he was burning up. Sweat poured down his temples, and this was only the second sound. How many had been in the wooden box? And how thick was the biggest one? Sherlock couldn't remember. He couldn't think of anything anymore. His entire organism, his entire being, had been reduced to his cock and the cold, hard invader that slipped deeper and deeper until John finally had mercy and pulled it back out again. Was it better coming _out_ than going _in_? Yes... no... it was like ejaculating without an orgasm... like urinating without fluid... it was like a fuse burning down in slow-motion.

 

Sherlock sobbed when he felt the emptiness inside his erection. The desire to have that emptiness filled again immediately both shocked and excited him. The cold of the fresh lubricant gel, the coolness of the next sound against his glans... the pressure on his opening... stronger this time...

 

A whimper lurked deep in Sherlock's throat. Tension... anticipation... expectation... How much pressure would John need to exert to penetrate him with this rod? How far would his urethra be dilated? Would the small, oh-so-familiar slit at the end of his penis be wider at the end of the day? Open? Incapable of closing? At least for a while?

 

A dark, disturbing, unbridled lust ran through him at the thought. A hot-and-cold shiver crept down his back, and his hard flesh throbbed for the first time. What would that throbbing feel like with a sound inside?

 

John was still rubbing the end of the third sound over his opening, rubbing and rubbing, leaving Sherlock empty and wanting. The emptiness was horrible. Sherlock wanted to beg, but the words got stuck in his throat. Finally... renewed pressure against his hole... the stretch... unbearable... wonderful... then the sound slid inside part way, burning like fire, filling the emptiness... but not completely... Sherlock needed more... wanted to feel it... deeper... the sweet pain of the stretch... the agonising tightness.

 

But instead of _more_ , he felt _less_. Sherlock tore his eyes open (when had he closed them?) and watched aghast as John took the rod out again. It was terrible... dreadful... and then the emptiness was back along with a strong sense of loss. Sherlock's eyes filled with tears.

 

"No," he whispered, his voice raw.

 

John sat there in his chair, to all appearances completely calm and concentrated. How in the world could he just sit there? So distant, so unmoved? But then their eyes met, and Sherlock saw the heat in John's eyes. Sherlock's gaze wandered down John's body, and he took in the obvious bulge outlined inside his trousers.

 

"Do you want it back?" John asked, his voice dark and his smile cold. "Do you want it deep inside your dick? Do you want it? That feeling... it hurts, doesn't it? Rather unpleasant, I imagine..."

 

Sherlock forced his vocal cords to reply. "Yes," he croaked, his throat dry. "It's awful..."

 

"And you want to feel it again, do you?"

 

"Yes," Sherlock rasped and let his head fall back. The pillow John had laid there for him softened the blow, and Sherlock saw now that John really did always know what was good for him... that John always knew what he needed.

 

John forced the gleaming metal sound through the small opening, this time employing a slight twist, and pushed it slowly but surely deeper with gentle pressure.

 

For Sherlock, it was a revelation. A bonfire of ecstasy. He threw his eyes open, stared up at the ceiling, unseeing, and let out a throaty cry to accompany the rod's journey to the centre of his erection... deeper and deeper... when he couldn't feel any more movement, Sherlock sobbed.

 

Two frantic breaths later, John began to fuck his cock with the sound. A slow, almost leisurely up and down, coupled with little twists that practically drove Sherlock mad. His heart thudded in his chest, his blood rushed through his veins, and something... was building up... becoming stronger with every thrust, with every pull... Sherlock groaned and John stopped.

 

"You're dripping again," John said. It sounded hoarse and slightly breathless. "Or... are you coming?" John's tone of voice was stunned... aroused... lecherous... stern. "Are you trying to ejaculate?"

 

Sherlock groaned again. He was incapable of any other form of expression.

 

"Sherlock... I asked you something."

 

There it was again... John's cold tone of command that made Sherlock submit completely every time.

 

"I don't know..." Sherlock mumbled.

 

The rod deep in his most intimate place still didn't move... It was a whisper, an assurance, a promise...an itch he couldn't scratch.

 

"More..." Sherlock moaned. No sooner had he spoken the word than a shudder ran through his body. Had he gone mad? Had he really just begged for _more_? It was too much already! The rod moved again. Slid up only to be pushed back down right away. Sherlock gasped out loud. Too much? No... not nearly enough! He'd never felt so helpless - so much at someone's mercy - and yet he'd never enjoyed so much being a plaything to satisfy another man's lust. No... not just any man... he enjoyed being a plaything to satisfy _John_.

 

"More..." he rasped a second time. Yes, he was mad. Mad for John. Mad for everything this man gave him. Pleasure, pain... it didn't matter... as long as it came from John, it was all bliss.

 

The sound stopped.

 

"Insatiable," John murmured, but it sounded more like praise than reproach. "Fine - then you're getting the next size up too. I don't want you to miss out on anything..." The hint of mockery that sounded in his words released a fresh wave of erotic shivers in Sherlock's tormented body.

 

Sound number three was removed just as slowly and carefully as the two before it. But it wasn't fast enough for Sherlock. He thrashed against his bonds, pulled at them, but it was all for naught. The procedure was carried out at the precise tempo of John's choosing. John determined the order of events, John made the decisions. Exhausted, Sherlock let his head drop back down. The bonds were no longer an anchor and something to hold on to; they were liberation. By giving himself completely up, by submitting entirely and letting John have all the power... he became free. For the first time in his life... free.

 

His eyes filled with tears again, and they ran down his cheeks. He felt John watching him and smiled.

 

John froze. The tears, the smile... it all hit him hard in the gut. The utter, angelic peace that had shone on Sherlock's face for just a moment before returning to a facsimile of ecstasy once again made John's pulse race. ' _Not yet...'_ he tried to tell himself. ' _Just one more sound... just number four... then...'_

 

His cock was agonisingly hard, even though he hadn't so much as touched it. Sherlock's surrender and his ability to suffer and still experience pleasure unfailingly had that effect on him. The man was simply a gift from on high. Up to now, everything was going just as he'd imagined it would - perhaps even better. It was an incomparable feeling to control another person in this manner... to command them... to have them so completely in the palm of his hand. So vulnerable... so fragile... so irresistible... utterly at his mercy. Oh, yes... it was perfect. The power that Sherlock had handed him was intoxicating. He was finally able to breathe easy again. He was finally able to think clearly once more. A burden was removed from his shoulders. Here, he had total control... and he'd get it back in the other areas of his life too. Piece by piece. But first... first he was going to bring Sherlock to orgasm. John took a deliberate breath through his nose. Oh, yes... he was going to make him come... he was going to make him come in the throes of the pain... and the way he knew Sherlock, he'd scream for _more_ as soon as it was over.

 

A surge of arousal gathered in his groin, making his erection throb.

 

Truly... a gift from God.

 

With a fiendish smile, John reached for the fourth sound and let it rest gently against Sherlock's opening. The hard flesh in his hand twitched, and gel mixed with precome welled up over the swollen glans. The thin slit - yielding under the constant friction and stimulation - opened all on its own when John applied a bit of pressure with the sound. It was as if it _wanted_ to be penetrated... as if it were _hungry_ for it. John licked his lips. The small ridge around the top of the urethra was dark red and slightly swollen now. But it was nothing to worry about, from a medical standpoint. He carefully pushed the metal rod bit by bit into Sherlock's penis. The small opening stretched further and further, taking in everything John fed it. It was an obscene sight, and it made John almost frantic with desire... the swollen meatus, slippery with lube and pre-ejaculate... the twitching cock in his hand... Sherlock's throaty moans.

 

John swallowed thickly.

 

"Sherlock..." he called, shocking himself with how rough his voice sounded. "Sherlock... listen to me! It's important!"

 

"F- fuck m-me," Sherlock stammered with some effort.

 

 _God_... completely out of it. John's erection throbbed again, and he felt a warm wetness spreading in his underpants.

 

"Pleeeeease..." Sherlock whined, and John had to close his eyes for a moment.

 

He counted to ten in his head... he only got as far as six.

 

"Sherlock..." he tried again. "Listen to me... you can ejaculate. But! When it's about to come up, let me know. I have to know... I have to pull the sound out. Believe me - it's better that way. Yeah? Do you understand? Sherlock?"

 

Hot, tear-filled eyes turned to John. Clarity shone in them for just a brief moment.

 

"Yes," Sherlock managed to get out. "I... I... also know my... my safe word." Then his gaze clouded over once again, dark and demanding. "Now do it!"

 

John didn't need to be told again. Slowly at first, then faster and faster, he drove the sound into Sherlock's hard, twitching penis, pulling it out at the same speed. Over and over again.

 

Sherlock whimpered and moaned incessantly... without pause... crying out for ' _more_ ' after a while, only to promptly break out in tears again. John's self-control hung by a thread. His balls felt hard and swollen, and he was afraid he was going to come in his pants like a teenager if Sherlock held out much longer.

 

But then Sherlock's cries changed, becoming more sharp and breathless, and John prepared to react quickly any second now.

 

"John... I... something's happening..." Sherlock panted. The muscles in his neck were tight, his abdomen was trembling. "Don't stop... John... you... please... please, I think... I... yes... I think it's coming... John... John! Now! John... I... Aaaaaaahhh!"

 

John pulled the rod out of the overstimulated urethra, this time a bit faster than before. It was a precisely calculated, final sadistic act and just the kick that Sherlock needed to reach his climax. John watched as Sherlock's testicles contracted simultaneously, as the stretched, dilated, irritated slit tried in vain to wink closed. He felt Sherlock's hard cock pulse. John rubbed his hand up and down over it two more times... the swollen glans inflated just a bit more... Sherlock let out a long, drawn-out, bone-deep cry, and white semen spurted and flowed out of the tormented hole, over John's fingers, to drip down onto Sherlock's sweaty, gleaming skin.

 

John took one last deliberate breath through his nose. He was breathing hard, and there was only one thing he wanted right then... Sherlock. But he had something to take care of first. He carefully squeezed the last few drops of ejaculate out of Sherlock's deflating penis and reached for the metal basin again. He had one little surprise left for Sherlock, something he didn't know about. He wiped off the head of Sherlock's cock with a paper towel and sprayed it with the disinfectant. Sherlock whimpered a bit as his sensitive genitalia still weren't accorded any peace. John smeared some lubricant gel on the object he'd taken out of the dish and held onto Sherlock's depleted penis with his right hand. With his left hand, he carefully inserted the thin tip of the object into Sherlock's widened urethra. It went in easily.

 

"John... what... what are you doing? John?" Panic mixed with curiosity sounded in Sherlock's voice, which was weak with exhaustion.

 

"Putting on a prince's wand," John explained in a businesslike manner, pushing the small piece a little further in. Sherlock whimpered softly. "I thought it would make you happy... to have both your pain and pleasure drawn out just a little longer. Any objections?" John looked up from what he was doing and saw Sherlock bite his lips. But that expression of hunger and greed had returned to his eyes as well. "I thought so," John said with an oily, satisfied smile. He shoved the little ring that was attached to the stem of the prince's wand (it was very similar in form to the sperm stopper) down over the head of Sherlock's penis until everything was snug and firmly in place.

 

"And now..." John removed the bonds from Sherlock's legs with a couple of quick motions, stood up and opened his trousers. He sighed in relief when his painfully stiff erection was finally freed and in his hand. "And now..." John said, growling darkly, "… I'm going to fuck you." With those words, he knelt down in front of the coffee table, lifted Sherlock's legs over his shoulders, and entered him with a single thrust.

 

"YEEEEESSS..." Sherlock howled breathlessly as John penetrated him deeply.

 

It was wonderful. It was horrible. To be stimulated again so soon after such a strong orgasm as he'd just had was pure torture, and Sherlock loved every second of it. The slight, steady rubbing inside his penis... the cold metal caressing the walls of his urethra... a constant reminder of the previous stretch... of the previous stimulation... and at the same time, John's hot erection filling his other opening... pushing into him... hard... fast... without mercy...

 

The double penetration, the double stretch, the double stimulation, sent Sherlock into a floaty state that he only started to emerge from when John emptied himself into him with a groan.

 

John pulled back out of Sherlock, completely drained. He gasped for air, exhausted.

 

He would have liked nothing better than to lie down on the floor right there, close his eyes and just... _sleep_. But he had to take care of Sherlock first. John got up from the floor on unsteady legs and did up his trousers. Then he bent over Sherlock and stroked his cheek.

 

Sherlock lay there as peacefully as if he were already dozing. But he couldn't be. He'd just been calling out for ' _more_ ', ' _deeper_ ', ' _harder_ ' and ' _faster_ ' in an endless litany. The muscles of his arse had clamped down, virtually milking John's orgasm out of him. Had he fainted or something? John felt Sherlock's neck for his pulse. He was relieved to find that everything was in order.

 

"Sherlock?" he called softly and started to release the bonds around his arms. "Wake up... I'm untying you."

 

"Mmmhhh... no... not yet..." Sherlock murmured, his eyes still closed.

 

"What?" John asked with a little chuckle. "Not yet? Sherlock..."

 

Sherlock opened his eyes then and looked directly at John. John forgot to breathe. Utter peace, utter devotion spoke to him in those eyes. Although he'd never seen it before, John suspected what was going on... Sherlock wasn't ready to return to reality yet; he wanted to enjoy the echoes of that exceptional experience a little longer, wanted to spend a little more time in that other world he'd apparently drifted off to.

 

"Just a little longer..." Sherlock whispered, and his eyes pleaded more eloquently than words ever could.

 

John's heart melted. Who was he to deny such a request?

 

"Of course," he said softly and placed a kiss on Sherlock's temple. It tasted salty. "But I'm going to tie you up a bit differently... and first..." He released the ropes and helped Sherlock to sit up on the table. "Drink..." he ordered him gently, holding out an open water bottle for Sherlock.

 

Sherlock obediently took it and drank half of it with greedy gulps. Then he sighed softly and kissed John on the mouth. It was a chaste kiss, their lips closed, yet John immersed himself in that kiss more than any of the previous ones. After massaging Sherlock's shoulders, arms, and wrists, he tied his wrists together behind his back. It was only a light restraint, but it fulfilled its purpose.

 

John got up, put in a CD of opera music and led Sherlock to the couch to the strains of Rossini's ' _Barber of Seville_ '. Sherlock immediately sank to his knees on the floor in a single graceful motion and looked up at John, his eyes filled with adoration. John, on the other hand, was hesitant. What was he supposed to do now? He would have liked nothing better than to lay Sherlock on a bed of silk and satin in return for everything he'd gone through for him. But if Sherlock preferred the floor right now... John tossed a cushion down, and Sherlock lowered himself onto it with a quiet smile. He shifted his weight, held his breath for a moment and then sighed with bliss. John's eye fell on Sherlock's penis, which was starting to fill with blood again and no longer hung completely limp between his legs... and on the gleaming prince's wand, which was still inside him.

 

"Safe word?" John asked softly, and Sherlock's smile became indulgent, almost affectionate.

 

"Oh, John..." he said, shaking his head a bit.

 

A lusty tug arose in John's groin. God, this man was going to be the death of him... He went to the house telephone and ordered biscuits and sandwiches from Mrs Turner.

 

"Just leave them outside the door, knock once and leave. And don't forget water and a straw."

 

When John sat down on the couch, Sherlock nestled up against his legs with a small, contented sound. It wasn't desire that surged through John this time - it was another emotion, and it threatened to overpower him.

 

There was no sound in the room other than the strains of the opera. It was a pleasant silence. John was happy to feel Sherlock's cheek against his thigh, and Sherlock was happy to have John gently stroke his hair.

 

Wasn't this the dream of every man with dominant tendencies? The lord of the manor, fully clothed and enthroned on high, the submissive slave bound and obedient at his feet... Wasn't this a wet dream come true?

 

John couldn't really settle on an answer. It was more than the fulfilment of some fantasy... it wasn't simply some shallow lust... it was more than just a power play... it was so much more, and it went so much deeper. It was crazy, but John had no other desire at the moment than to wait on Sherlock hand and foot, to fulfil his every wish, whereas Sherlock was perfectly happy to cower on the floor, in fetters, powerless and debased, already caught up in the claws of the next spiral of pain and pleasure - if John was interpreting the involuntary twitching of his hips correctly. The prince's wand must be hell for Sherlock after everything he'd already been through today. A hell that no one knew how to enjoy the way Sherlock did.

 

When the knock came on the door, John got up, brought in the richly laden tray, and set it down on the coffee table. First he poured a glass of water, placed it on the coffee table where Sherlock could reach it, and put the straw in it.

 

"Drink," he commanded softly, and Sherlock leaned forward, careful not to lose his balance with his hands bound as they were, and sucked at the straw, making his cheekbones stand out prominently and sending a fresh wave of desire through John's body.

 

"Hungry?" he asked once Sherlock finally let the straw go. Sherlock nodded, and John broke a biscuit into four pieces, put them on the palm of his hand, and offered them to Sherlock. "Eat." Sherlock's tongue on his palm felt just as erotic as it had that time he'd fed him mashed potatoes, and yet there was something more there now... it was more than an order that was being followed, more than a form of sensual foreplay.

 

It was a stewardship; caring for someone.

 

Had he always worried about his past lovers the way he did about Sherlock? John wasn't sure. Somehow it had never really seemed necessary before. That might be in part because he'd never gone as far with any of Sherlock's predecessors as he had with Sherlock. The _scenes_ with those other men had never reached this level of intensity. And of course it might also be because Sherlock was simply unable - or unwilling - to watch out for his own well-being. And after all, someone had to...

 

_It had all begun with a 'dirty magazine' that had somehow fallen into his possession at a flea market. John was 20 back then. The pictures had shown men and women restrained in every possible - and impossible - position. He'd especially liked the images in which the welts from the whips were visible on the bare skin. It had fairly electrified him, and he dug the magazine out from under his pillow every night so he could pleasure himself while he looked at the pictures and his imagination ran wild. But back then, he'd never thought he would actually live out one of those scenarios. He was happy with what reality offered. Whenever he got a new boyfriend, the magazine was quickly forgotten. The things he could do with a real person were much more exciting than his half-baked masturbatory fantasies._

 

_But then he'd had a brief affair with an older man, one that he'd kept secret even from Mike for reasons even he wasn't sure of... and that man wanted John to bend him over his knee... it had been like a revelation... the excited gasps, the loud slaps, the flush on the skin, the scent of arousal... it was the strongest orgasm John had ever experienced up to then._

 

_From that moment on, John knew what he wanted, what he needed._

 

 _It started with a pair of handcuffs... but at some point, the open-handed slaps weren't enough_ _anymore, and his boyfriend at the time left. He found another fellow soon enough who enjoyed the narrow leather whip John had bought. But eventually that wasn't enough either... John's desires increased, changed, flared up... uninhibited, dark and... too disturbing for most of the men who shared his bed._

 

_He learned to control himself. Learned to negotiate. Learned to respect limits - at least when he felt like it - and remained generally dissatisfied._

 

_But he'd always behaved properly. Had heeded every 'no', every 'stop', every 'I don't like that'. Accepted and respected them... and regretted it deeply each and every time._

 

_Since he'd never really given free rein to his true desires, it had generally sufficed to check with a quick glance whether everything was all right with his lovers. It had never really been necessary to check their pupils or their pulse, or to make sure they didn't get dehydrated or starve as a result of their submission. Most of the protective measures came as second nature to John anyway - not least because of his aborted medical studies. He'd never forgone condoms, and he'd always paid particular attention to hygiene and cleanliness. He disinfected the toys he used himself._

 

_But usually, such care had been a burdensome duty... later it had become necessary only to prevent anyone from charging him with assault. On the other hand, being a mob boss had helped immensely. Most of the complaints - especially from the prostitutes and rent boys he'd take to bed when he'd gone too long without a 'steady companion' at his side - were easy to silence with money._

 

_Like anyone else, he was looking for love... but he never found it. Sometimes he wondered whether he were asking too much... whether he wanted the impossible... a man... a 'partner' in the truest sense of the word... an equal... someone with the same rights and privileges as himself... whom he could worship and debase... whom he could serve and torture... whose arms he could throw himself into, and whom he could command..._

 

_At some point, he'd stopped looking._

 

_At some point, he'd settled for what life offered him... sex for pay with prostitutes and other mercenary men who played a role for a while. Every climax had a hollow core._

 

_And then... then fate had sent Sherlock his way._

 

_Sherlock... who never feigned his desire, with whom he never had to fear going too far but rather not far enough._

 

_Sherlock... with whom the caretaking was no longer a burden, but a privilege._

 

John looked down at Sherlock, lost in thought. This singular man belonged to him... wasn't it perfectly normal to protect one's belongings - especially such a precious one - and treat them with extreme care? Sherlock's well-being was important to him. Admittedly, he'd never really cared much about the welfare of his other playmates. He'd felt rather indifferent toward all of them in the end. Just as they'd felt indifferent toward him. He'd been nothing more than a walking wallet for them. But not Sherlock. Sherlock was... different. So wonderfully different...

 

"Another?" John asked when Sherlock was done with the first biscuit, and when Sherlock nodded he held out a second one, which Sherlock likewise nibbled off of John's palm. John ate a sandwich in the meantime without even tasting what was on it. He was also drifting into that parallel reality where Sherlock was still lingering. It was so quiet, so peaceful...

 

He fed Sherlock a sandwich, gave him something to drink, stroked his hair and gave him all the time he needed.

 

Sherlock enjoyed the quiet and the warmth of John's thigh against his cheek. He felt so good... so safe and secure. The prince's wand tickled inside him... a constant reminder of the arousing torment, and the painful ecstasy. He was overstimulated, sensitive, and... still greedy for more. But right now, he was enjoying the wait. The slow ramping up of his arousal... the faint echo... It was a delicious feeling... at John's feet... John's hand in his hair... his blood still running hot through his veins and pooling unerringly between his legs... the almost painful pull as his penis hardened... more and more... Sherlock could have sat there forever. He lost all sense of his surroundings... he could barely feel his body anymore... there was only John and the pulsing excitement in his lower body. The heavy throb of his erection. The constant stimulation from the thin metal rod. His hands bound behind his back. The continuous increase in his desire... without any promise of satisfaction... yes, that was what he wanted right now... he wanted to wait... he wanted to put off his deliverance... he wanted to suffer... until he absolutely couldn't stand it any longer... until the torment was too great to bear... then he would beg John to let him come, and John... John would make him wait just a little bit longer...

 

Sherlock's erection twitched in joyous anticipation at the thought, and a moan, full of longing, escaped his lips as his hard flesh squeezed even tighter than it already was around the equally hard foreign object. It was a sensation he could definitely become addicted to...

 

The last few bars of the opera faded away, and John looked up in surprise. Had so much time passed already? Had he really been sitting here that long? So lost to the world in this cocoon of dominance and surrender? And how long had Sherlock been sitting between his legs rather than next to them? He checked briefly whether Sherlock's fingers were still warm and well supplied with blood, then leaned back again in relief. John combed his fingers through Sherlock's unruly curls in a familiar gesture borne of affection, pulling lightly on them and forcing Sherlock to sit up a bit.

 

"Aaaahhh..." Sherlock moaned faintly before directing the full power of a gaze that could melt steel at John, who immediately noticed the dark red erection - wet and slick despite the prince's wand - that jutted out at an obscene angle from between his legs.

 

"Oh my God," John whispered in a low voice... it almost sounded awestruck to his own ears. He let go of Sherlock's hair, and his head sank down into John's lap. What was he supposed to do now? He really hadn't thought that...

 

But Sherlock seemed to know precisely what to do. Without saying a word or making any other sound, he rubbed his cheek and lips in an unmistakeable gesture against John's lap, even going so far as to try and grab hold of the zip in John's trousers with his teeth.

 

"Sherlock..." John murmured in a voice that reflected both incredulity and desire. "Sherlock..." His hips jerked forward uncontrolled, and he stroked Sherlock's hair again in what he hoped was a calming way. "Don't..." he said softly. "You don't have to..."

 

Sherlock sat up with some effort. His pale eyes glowed with a dark fire that took John's breath away.

 

"Let me... please, John... let me suck your cock... please... I want to feel you... on my tongue... in my mouth... in my throat..."

 

John got lost in those eyes for several seconds. Then he rasped out, "All right," and opened his flies with shaky fingers.

 

When Sherlock closed his lips around John's penis, it was soft and flaccid. But the scent of sweat and sex hit Sherlock's nose with such intensity that he moaned softly. His tongue slid over the head... so warm... pushed in beneath the foreskin... so pliant... and tapped playfully against the little opening... so tight... so different than his own right then. The thought sent a shudder through his entire body, and he moaned again. The soft penis on his tongue began to stiffen.

 

"Fuuuuck..." John swore from between gritted teeth.

 

In record time, Sherlock had conjured up a hard, throbbing erection, which he pushed deep into his throat for the third time now, going at an agonisingly slow pace. The sensual slow-motion almost drove John mad and yet he endured it, let Sherlock torment him the same way he'd tormented Sherlock earlier. He let Sherlock swallow him twice more to the hilt while he hummed. The vibrations around his hard flesh were magnificent, and practically certain to drive a man insane. When Sherlock let him go far enough that he was just suckling on the glans, John seized his chance and dragged Sherlock up by the hair.

 

"Say it!" he demanded harshly. "You've already proven often enough that you're the hottest cock sucker I know. We both know what you want. We both know how this is going to end... but I want to hear it from you. So... say - it."

 

"Fuck me." The words fell promptly from between the full, red, wet lips.

 

John closed his eyes and ran his tongue across his lips. When he opened his eyes again, he said with a dangerous smile: "You forgot the magic word. You need to learn how to say ' _please_ '. And just for that... I'll fuck you... but the prince's wand is staying in. You're staying tied up, and I'm not going to touch you."

 

"Oh, God..." Sherlock rasped, and a clearly visible shudder shook his body.

 

John slapped him lightly on the cheek. "You probably won't be able to come like that." He paused for a moment and waited. "Do you have anything to say to me, Sherlock?" John held his breath, waiting for Sherlock to hurl his safe word back at him.

 

But Sherlock just looked at him before finally saying in a deep, silky voice, "All right."

 

"All right," John echoed flatly, staring past Sherlock into empty space. ' _All right_ ,' he repeated to himself. _'It's fine with him. It's really, truly what he wants... what he needs right now. Fine. It's all fine.'_ John took two deep breaths, grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders, turned him around, and pushed his upper body down on the coffee table.

 

Sherlock shuffled around a bit on his knees until he'd distributed his weight properly, then spread his thighs in invitation. His erection couldn't really be seen from the back, as stiffly as it was sticking up between his legs. John took in the sight before him... if he should ever be in a situation where he needed wanking material... this was it. This image alone would keep him satisfied for months. Then he stood up, quickly taking off his clothes, and knelt behind Sherlock on the floor. It was hard. Pillows? No. Sherlock didn't have one this time either. It was going to be a fast one anyway. As worked up as he was, it wasn't going to take long at all, and he could take all the time he needed afterwards to take care of Sherlock... somewhere more comfortable.

 

He parted Sherlock's buttocks with both hands and stared greedily at the small, winking hole. Still a little red and dilated from their earlier activities. He stroked it gently with one finger and the muscles gave way immediately. Sherlock gasped for breath and held stock still. Only a faint whimpering could be heard. John took his finger away again and smeared some lube on his erection. Then he placed the head of his penis directly against the pliant, flexible opening and entered Sherlock with a single jerk.

 

"Yeeeesss..." Sherlock croaked in a long, drawn-out moan. John was finally inside him again, stretching him, possessing him, filling him... He felt the powerful hands - as threatened - on his hips... and only on his hips. John wasn't going to touch him. Wasn't going to lessen the torment of his throbbing, painful hardness - as promised. The pull in his groin got stronger, pulsing in his balls, creeping up through his body, swelling and receding... right in time with John's firm, deep thrusts.

 

His muscles cramped up... his thighs trembled... the exquisite torment of the piece of metal in his erect penis... the unrelenting stimulation of his prostate... He felt his muscles shaking, convulsing, pulsing around John's cock, and then John plunged in once more, driving his erection mercilessly across the erogenous zone deep inside him... once... twice... three times... Sherlock's testicles contracted... more... tighter... Sherlock heard himself screaming as if through a fog... and then... for the fraction of a second... Nothing... complete emptiness... utter detachment... then... something clicked in him... and... he _came_.

 

A guttural sound was all that came out of his throat when John cried out his name, clawed his fingers into Sherlock's hips and spent himself deep inside him.

 

Sherlock sobbed, his entire body shaking as he climaxed and came as well... tried to come... tried to ejaculate... his body kept on jerking and convulsing... his testicles squeezed and contracted... semen shot into his throbbing cock over and over... without being able to spill... a never-ending orgasm.

 

John's indistinct voice reached his ear. "Oh my God... Sherlock.. you... that..." Silence. "Wait... let me... Oh, Sherlock..."

 

Fingers on his overstimulated, still-hard flesh. Shaking fingers. Pressure on his glans. A pull... a slight burn and then...

 

Sherlock's body arched up one last time as the trembling fingers rubbed his cock with gentle pressure... made him ejaculate... made him discharge... ended the exquisitely hellish climax.

 

"John..." Sherlock whispered, his voice raw, before he collapsed.

 

John wiped the sweaty brow and crouched down on his heels, feeling dazed. What just happened here? _'You know damn well what just happened,'_ his brain supplied the impertinent answer. Yes, he knew. Sherlock just had an orgasm, despite all the extenuating circumstances. Untouched. With his penis impaled. Incredible. Disturbing. And fantastically hot.

 

He wanted nothing more than to do it again, and now. But he suspected that neither he nor Sherlock would survive a second round. Maybe they'd try it again sometime. Later. Much later. Or maybe never again. Maybe it would remain a one-time thing. Maybe that was better. Or maybe not. But now he had to take care of Sherlock. Had to make sure he was okay and that he hadn't been injured.

 

He quickly released the ropes around his hands, wrapped his arms around him and pulled the limp body onto the couch.

 

"Sherlock?" John called softly, kissing him on the temple before he took his pulse. When Sherlock didn't move, he repeated his name: "Sherlock?" He raised one of Sherlock's eyelids with his finger to check the pupils. An indignant grunt sounded.

 

"Tired..." Sherlock murmured, pushing John's hand away so he could close his eye again.

 

"Soon," John said with a gentle smile, pressing a kiss into the sticky curls. "I just need to check everything's all right."

 

"Hmmm," Sherlock grunted grumpily but let John take a look at his penis and poke at it gently.

 

"All right," he finally said. "Up with you."

 

"Carry me..." Sherlock sighed, stretching his arms out to John like a child.

 

John sighed in resignation. "The things I do for you..." he muttered in an undertone, bent over and actually lifted Sherlock up in his arms. "Bloody hell, you're heavy," he complained as he walked to the door. "You wouldn't think it, all skin and bones like you are... Open the door at least, I can't reach."

 

Sherlock felt blindly for the door handle, happening upon it more by chance than intention. He nestled his head into the crook of John's neck with a satisfied yawn.

 

But rather than going directly into the bedroom, John carried Sherlock into the bathroom and set him down carefully so he was standing in front of the sink.

 

"Hey... don't fall over..." he exclaimed when Sherlock swayed without making any effort to steady himself. Sherlock reached for the edge of the sink with a sullen grumble.

 

"Hold still... I want to wash you," John said, soaping up his hands thoroughly before rinsing and then applying more soap. Then he carefully reached for Sherlock's limp penis and cleaned it. When he was done, he kept holding it between his thumb and forefinger and said, "Pee."

 

"What?" Sherlock asked sleepily. "I don't need to."

 

"Doesn't matter. Pee. Now. I have to see if there's any blood in your urine, and I can only do that if you pee into the sink here. Now do it."

 

Sherlock relaxed his muscles, sighing in annoyance, and did as John told him.

 

"Okay. Looks good," John decided, relieved. He smeared some cream onto the head of Sherlock's penis and massaged it gently into the reddened opening.

 

Sherlock made a sound that was suspiciously like a purr and then demanded, "Bed," once again stretching his arms out to John as before.

 

"But of course, your highness," John replied, his tone teasing yet affectionate, and lifted him up. He was secretly glad that Sherlock's submissive side had retired for the time being and the spoilt prince had once again taken command.

 

It wasn't until Sherlock was safely tucked up in bed - and snoring lightly - that John noticed how tired he was himself. He let himself drop onto the mattress beside Sherlock like a felled tree. He felt for Sherlock's hand, already halfway asleep, and once he found it, he sighed happily. One final thought popped into his head:

 

Were they going to have to talk about it? About everything that had happened today? It would probably be better if they did...

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

The Grand Hall of the Battersea Arts Centre was sumptuously decorated, and terribly hot. Greg ran his finger around the inside of his too-tight collar for the umpteenth time in order to loosen it a bit. No use. Maybe he could take off his jacket a little later - after enough alcohol had flowed and the guests were a bit more relaxed - without earning cross looks from one of his superiors.

 

After all, he was _Special Commissioner_ now - which probably meant he was supposed to be setting a good example. Greg puffed out his cheeks and let the air back out with a thin whistle. There wasn't actually anything for him to do here. The security measures had already been planned, checked, and approved. Now they were being carried out by the assigned officers, and he wasn't good for anything other than looking pretty.

 

Mycroft Holmes took the stage to the sounds of applause, accepted the microphone from the patroness of the Metropolitan Police Charity Ball, and began his opening remarks - which would probably take several minutes. Greg looked longingly at the buffet near to where he'd taken up his position. He probably wasn't going to get a cold beer tonight, but he'd settle for some of the champagne that the waiters were busy pouring into glasses, which were already condensing in a promising way. Whatever - the stuff looked cold. That was a light at the end of the tunnel in any case.

 

Two other waiters were lifting up a large ice sculpture next to the platters with the attractively arranged hors-d'oeuvres. Greg frowned. Everything was supposed to be set up before the opening speeches began.

 

He nodded at the two men and stepped closer to the table.

 

"Little late, what, lads?" he asked in an undertone.

 

The larger of the two - a blond man with close-set eyes - twitched his shoulders, but the smaller one answered in a low voice, "What can ya do? Traffic's hell." He grinned and kept chewing his gum.

 

Something bugged Greg about that. Did waiters chew gum? That had to be frowned on. His eyes slid over the man... dark hair, slightly bulging eyes... both were wearing the long, dark aprons of the catering company responsible for the service that evening. Of course the company had been checked out. Greg looked for and found the name tags on both men's lapels.

 

As far as he could recall, the names agreed with the list of assigned workers.

 

Greg shrugged mentally.

 

It was probably the heat that was making him so suspicious. Then he took a closer look at the ice sculpture. The base was made of white, opaque ice and was probably supposed to depict waves or sea spray; the two figures carved of clear ice that rose out of it looked like...

 

"Are those supposed to be fish?" he asked.

 

"Fish?" The dark-haired man looked appalled. "Those are koi carp!" he corrected Greg, sotto voce.

 

"Look like goldfish to me," Greg said, earning a look from the dark-haired waiter that said ' _Philistine_ '.

 

Greg turned away, suppressing a sigh. He'd certainly come a long way. Now even waiters were wrinkling their noses at him.

 

At least the icy goldfish refreshed the stale air a bit. Greg decided to stay right where he was. A cool draught tingled pleasantly over the back of his neck.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_**To be continued...** _

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

I know... a little bit of an evil cliffhanger. But I could have been even more evil. Believe me.

 

_**Note: Of course I researched sounds and medfet as well as I could. I don't claim to have everything right, though. It could be that the scene I've shown is nothing like reality, and the practises therein might be depicted in a way that's either partially or entirely wrong.** _

_**What do they always say on TV? PLEASE DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME. Thank you.** _

 

This is what a **prince's wand** looks like:

Source:

<https://www.meo.de/en/urethral-play-penis-plugs/2846-junior-princes-wand-with-glans-ring-urethral-play-penis-plugs.html>

 

**Opera:**

Check out the libretto of "The Barber of Seville"... it really fits the overall situation, doesn't it? :) With the guardian and the ward and the deceptions...

<http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Barber_of_Seville>

 

**The Grand Hall at the Battersea Arts Centre:**

<https://www.bac.org.uk/content/16327/hire_us/spaces/grand_hall/grand_hall>

 

**Koi Carp:**

<http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Koi#Etymology>

Koi are a symbol of love and friendship in Japan.

     

 

 


	31. Turning Points - Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation by the wonderful SwissMiss!

 

**Chapter 31: Turning Points - Part 2**

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Up on the podium, Mycroft had just reached the last part of his little speech. He knew it backwards and forwards. He could have recited it in his sleep. As he didn't need to pay attention to the words coming out of his mouth, he let his eyes wander around the room.

 

Lords, ladies, a couple of ministers, several so-called celebrities, and of course any number of police officers... and Detective Inspector Lestrade.

 

Near the buffet. Mycroft was a little bit annoyed at himself. He should have realised that the Inspector would try to get close to the food and drink. If only he'd taken a moment to think about it, he could have saved himself the trouble of scanning half the room looking for him.

 

Mycroft was just taking a breath to lend a little more weight to the final sentence of his speech when a dull bang ripped through the air. He felt both the initial shockwave and the aftershocks in his chest - it was like an especially loud firecracker. The ice sculpture shattered into thousands of pieces, glittering in the light of the myriad lamps like a crystalline rainfall. The floor shook as if there were an earthquake. Mycroft watched helplessly as a large chunk of ice from the sculpture hit Gregory Lestrade on the side of his head, and the Inspector collapsed onto the ground.

 

For a fraction of a second, a surreal, breathless silence followed the sound of the explosion.

 

Then all hell broke loose.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Jim Moriarty had taken cover a short distance away from the buffet table after setting off the bomb with his smart phone. Sebastian Moran had already left the hall and was waiting outside with the car they'd left parked in a side street a couple of days ago. The catering company van they'd arrived in would simply be left in the delivery zone. In the perfect position to block any ambulances and police vehicles from gaining access.

 

Jim took a cloth out of the pocket of his _borrowed_ waiter's apron and wiped one half of his face with it. When he took the cloth away, his skin was smeared, as if he were bleeding from a head wound. Fake blood was good for so many things... now he was indistinguishable from the other victims, whom he now joined, crying and moaning, in order to leave the scene under cover of the mass of people. It was a little risky, but he hadn't wanted to miss the moment. Experiencing the panic and distress of so many people first-hand was worth a little risk on his part.

 

Outside in the street, the sirens were already wailing, and the first responders were rushing toward them. Still, Jim was able to leave the site of the attack without anyone noticing. Too much confusion, too much screaming... it was impossible to pay attention to any one person. With a second cloth, he wiped the dye off his face, then took off the apron, which granted him a certain degree of anonymity. That pesky Lestrade was the only one who'd taken any note of them, but there was nothing to be done about that now. With any luck, he was dead. Jim had seen how one of the chunks of ice hit him on the head and knocked him down.

 

He scrunched the apron up into a ball and tossed it into the next rubbish bin he passed, along with his gum. Then he took out a fresh piece and strolled leisurely toward the rendezvous point, where Moran would be waiting with the car.

 

Tonight's events probably wouldn't entirely put an end to Doc Watson, but they would take a heavy toll.... he might even be down for the count. Jim smiled. It wouldn't take much longer.

 

John Watson was on the way out.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

John was awoken by a soft yet insistent knocking. He turned over in the bed, rather impolitely, and closed his eyes more firmly. It didn't help. The knocking continued, and it was coming from his bedroom door. He blinked carefully. Light. He closed his eyes again. It was light out already. Not that that meant much in the summer. How late was it? Had something happened? He heard soft, deep breathing beside him. Sherlock. John relaxed. Sherlock was still here. Everything was fine with him. At least that was something.

 

He grumpily tossed the thin cover off and groped for his dressing gown with his eyes still half-closed. He finally found it on the chair in front of the window, put it on, and went to the door. When he opened it a crack he found himself eye to eye with Thomas, who had his hand raised to knock again.

 

"Mr Watson, Mr Watson," Thomas whispered urgently, looking as if he'd just seen a ghost.

 

"Yes, what is it?" John asked curtly. "What time is it, anyway? And what the hell makes you think you can wake me on a Sunday without express instructions?"

 

"It's eight o'clock and I have express instructions to wake you up," Thomas blurted out.

 

"From who?" John hissed quietly so as not to disturb Sherlock.

 

"From the mayor. Mr Holmes is waiting downstairs in the small parlour. He wants to see you. Now," Thomas repeated the order, giving John an apologetic look. "His words. Not mine."

 

John blinked. Then he gathered himself. "Mycroft Holmes? Mycroft Holmes is here?" he asked in an undertone. "What the hell does he want here?"

 

"He didn't want to tell me," Thomas answered with a shrug of his shoulders.

 

John gritted his teeth and let out a harsh curse - one which Thomas made a mental note of so he could use it himself later - and said, "I'll be right there."

 

John went into his walk-in closet as quietly as possible and hastily got dressed before going back into the bedroom. He gave Sherlock a brief, searching look - yes, he was still asleep - and then left the room.

 

No sooner had the door closed with a small _click_ than Sherlock's eyes opened.

 

Mycroft was here.

 

That could only mean trouble.

 

He had to know what his thrice-cursed brother was doing here.

 

**oooOOOOooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

John went into the small parlour where Mycroft Holmes was waiting for him. When he entered, Holmes - who had been pacing in front of the windows - stopped where he was and fixed John with a hard stare.

 

John ran his tongue over his upper lip.

 

"All right, what brings you here?" John asked flat out, ready for just about anything.

 

Mycroft Holmes didn't beat around the bush with small talk either. His voice was cold, icy, and clipped as he said: "I have a press conference in one hour and 38 minutes, and you had better give me a very good reason why I shouldn't liberate the city from a parasite like you."

 

John had been mentally prepared to hear quite a lot of things, but he hadn't anticipated an attack like that.

 

Which was why he cried out, sneering, "So, what? Are you going to shoot me? In my own home? You'd never get away with it." He shook his head with a grim smirk.

 

Holmes' lips curled into a cool, arrogant, and extremely unpleasant smile. "There's more than one way to skin a cat... and I have all of them at my disposal."

 

John started to get a very bad feeling. "You..." he said in a dangerously quiet voice. "You have something to do with the mess with Charlie and Albright's nephew... You... you're behind everything! You're trying to use this to get rid of me, aren't you?"

 

Holmes' gaze flickered. He almost looked bewildered for a moment. "I'm not acquainted with either this Charlie or Albright's nephew," he finally declared. "What are you talking about?"

 

"What _I_ am talking about?" John cried, both furious and completely adrift. "What are _you_ talking about?!"

 

"The bombing at the police ball!"

 

"What?!" John blurted out, having no idea what he was talking about. "Bombing? What am I supposed to have to do with a bombing?!"

 

"That's what I'm asking you!" Mycroft hurled at him, struggling to remain under control. "What were you thinking, disregarding our deal in such a manner?!"

 

John shook his head. "Sorry, no..." he denied it. "I'm not letting you put that on me. You'll have to find another scapegoat. I never touch the police unless there's no other recourse. And even then... I have absolutely no reason to set off … a _bomb_... I can't believe this! How could you..."

 

The door opened suddenly, and Mike came in, his eyes betraying his fatigue and the lines around his mouth bearing testimony to his anger.

 

"John - here you are! Next time pick up your damn mobile! Got it?! Otherwise you can find some other patsy to spend half the night with customs and then hanging out at the station getting our boys..." It wasn't until now that he noticed John wasn't alone. He stopped short and fell silent. It took another second for him to recognise that the guest was the mayor.

 

"Mr Holmes?" he asked, perplexed.

 

John made a dismissive gesture in Holmes' direction and bored his gaze into Mike, his expression tense. "Customs?"

 

"Yeah - the... the delivery from..." Mike glanced uncertainly at the unexpected guest. "John..." he hissed a warning.

 

John waved him off again. "Found out?" he asked shortly.

 

"Yeah - tipped off," Mike confirmed, rubbing a hand over his face.

 

John nodded and turned to Holmes.

 

"And there would be my motive," he stated matter-of-factly.

 

Holmes looked him over, unimpressed. "You're not seriously telling me you knew nothing of all this?"

 

"And you're not seriously telling me you had nothing to do with my delivery being checked so closely?"

 

The two adversaries stood mustering each other.

 

"I'm afraid we're at a bit of a stand-off," Holmes finally said, his tone cool. "I find it difficult to believe you had no knowledge of the incident at customs."

 

"You heard what my friend said," John retorted, furious. "I didn't answer my phone. I..."

 

"Yes, why not?!" Mike interjected at this point, clearly aggravated. It was obvious that the sleepless night and not being able to reach John had grated on his nerves.

 

John tried to silence Mike with a meaningful look, but then he gave in. There wasn't really any point. If he wanted to convince Mycroft Holmes of his innocence (which was kind of funny, but still the truth in this case), he was going to have to lay all his cards on the table.

 

"I turned it off," John said in a tone of voice that invited neither contradiction nor any further questions.

 

Mike didn't care a bit. "Turned it off?" Mike took a quick breath before remembering the mayor was present and settled for: "Are you insane?!" in order to express his outrage.

 

John jutted his chin out, glared at Mike, and turned to include Mycroft Holmes in his answer.

 

"I was busy with something that required my full attention. Any distraction or interruption could have had dire consequences."

 

Mike snorted and hissed from between clenched teeth: "We'll have to speak about that later!"

 

"Fine, Mike. That's enough now," John said forcefully.

 

Mycroft Holmes had been patiently listening to the explanations and responses. "So your phone was off … very well. But your land line was still working, wasn't it?" Holmes asked with a greasy smile. "Or was the line out of order, quite by accident?"

 

John gaped at him. "You don't honestly think we'd carry on conversations like that on a land line? Where anyone could be listening in? Come on, Mr Holmes..."

 

A faint blush rose to Mycroft Holmes' cheeks. "Mobiles can also be tapped."

 

"Well, yes," John admitted readily. "But at least we can make it as difficult as possible for the bastards."

 

Holmes inclined his head slightly. "I think your... _friend_... can be dispensed with for the rest of our conversation."

 

"Mike..." John said, lifting one shoulder. "Go upstairs and have Mrs Turner bring you breakfast, all right?"

 

"Yeah, yeah - fine," Mike said, still upset. "I'm going."

 

Once Mike had closed the door a touch too firmly behind himself and the two men were alone once more, John resumed speaking.

 

"I didn't know anything about the thing with customs... but it's obvious someone's trying to make it look like the bomb at the ball was my payback. I'd say it was a good thing that my... important business, and the fact that my phone was off, put a spanner in those plans. That pretty much mucked up this person's timing."  
  


Holmes nodded thoughtfully. "Someone wants to drive a wedge between us... It must be someone who knows of our deal."

 

John barked out a laugh. "You might as well suspect the entire mob in that case. I told my borough heads and they'll have told their people too."

 

"The entire mob?" Holmes frowned in disapproval. "Was that really necessary?"

 

"You don't know organised crime too well, do you?" John asked with wan amusement. "If I hadn't sold our deal to my people as evidence of my success, you wouldn't be able to do much more than plant primroses on my grave right now."

 

"I don't believe it's primrose season," Holmes stated fussily.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Sherlock hadn't done anything more than wrap the sheet around himself before leaving the bedroom, shortly after John. Since then, he'd been sitting at the top of the stairs, trying to catch whatever snatches of conversation he could. But the room John and his brother were in was at the other end of the entry hall, and Sherlock still had no idea what the two men were talking about.

 

He saw Mike stomping through the hall like a tired, angry steamroller. He saw Mike look for John in his office first before finding him in the other room. He saw him go into the room, and then come back out a relatively short time later. He heard him muttering deprecations under his breath: "Several million! Three men in jail! Shit!" He saw - to his surprise - that rather than going back to the office, Mike started up the stairs.

 

Sherlock stood, his heart thudding. Was Mike coming to him? Was he supposed to fetch him? Had Mycroft told John that...

 

"Morning, Sherlock," Mike grumbled and went past him to the living room.

 

"What's going on down there?" Sherlock asked in a voice he didn't even recognise as his own.

 

"No idea," Mike answered readily and yawned. "No one tells me anything," he complained darkly. His eyes wandered over Sherlock's sheet. "I'm going to order some breakfast from the kitchen. If you want something, I can order for you too - but you're going to put something on before you sit down at a table with me."

 

"No, I don't want anything," Sherlock declined absently. "You really don't know why Mycroft is here?" he pressed.

 

"Haven't the foggiest notion. Don't care either. I have other things to worry about." Mike yawned again and went into the living room. He didn't pay any more attention to Sherlock. It wasn't until he'd ordered a huge breakfast for himself that he realised Sherlock had referred to the mayor as ' _Mycroft_ '. That seemed rather odd to Mike. But he was much too tired to think about it any further. Who knew what went on in Sherlock's head? He probably called the Queen ' _Betsy_ '.

 

**oooOOOOooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Sherlock stood, still wearing the sheet and with his heart beating wildly, in front of the door that concealed John and Mycroft. His fingers and lips felt numb. Small grey spots danced before his eyes. What was being discussed behind this door? He had to know! He would probably end up making everything worse - like always - but the uncertainty lay on his chest like a stone, and made it impossible for him to breathe freely. Still, he tried. After the third half-hearted effort at gasping for air, the grey spots disappeared, which was something at least. He clenched his teeth together resolutely. He took it as a good sign that John hadn't sent for him yet. It was therefore unlikely (but not entirely out of the question, unfortunately, he reminded himself) that Mycroft was going to demand he come back. ' _Dear God..._ ' he prayed silently, but didn't know how to continue. Interesting... prayer was apparently not like riding a bike... It seemed you could actually forget how to do it.

 

Sherlock stared at the door as if he'd never seen it before in his life.

 

What in the world was he doing here? Why didn't he just go back upstairs, bury his head in John's pillow and breathe in his scent until it was all over?

 

He gritted his teeth together so hard they made a grating sound.

 

Because he'd run away from everything for long enough.

 

Because he'd hidden from Mycroft for long enough.

 

Because he didn't just want to stand here helplessly and watch what was quite possibly his future - _his life_ \- being decided. If decisions were being made behind that closed door that concerned him, he wanted to be heard. He wasn't going to sit down quietly any longer.

 

And if they weren't talking about him... well... then this was a unique opportunity to set things straight. It still bothered him that John had glossed over the true nature of their relationship in front of Mycroft. It was high time to come clean with his _dear_ brother.

 

Sherlock reached out his hand. He watched as if from a distance as his long fingers hovered over the door handle. Then they closed around the cool metal and opened the door.

 

His entrance was even more dramatic than he'd hoped. The two men - sitting opposite each other in two dark armchairs - fell silent immediately. Two pairs of eyes were trained on him. One was steely blue, disapproving, cool, controlled, yet just a bit surprised - the other dark blue, disbelieving, a little bit amused, a little curious and a little annoyed.

 

"John? When are you finally coming back?" Sherlock pouted in a nasal tone. "You promised me a fourth round."

 

"Sherlock - I have some business to take care of here," John said slowly, directing his dark blue eyes at him with a look that was both taken aback and suspicious. He was probably trying to figure out what the purpose of Sherlock's interruption was.

 

"Yes, I know," Sherlock declared with a dismissive gesture. "I spoke briefly with Mike."

 

"Your _accountant_..." Mycroft drawled snidely, giving first Sherlock then John a searching look. "I see."

 

"He _is_ my accountant," John retorted with venomous politeness.

 

" _HE_ is standing right here and can hear you!"

 

Mycroft blinked back over at Sherlock, crossed his legs, and rested his hands in his lap. "Sherlock. It's been a while since we last saw each other. A shame that this happy interlude has come to such an abrupt end."

 

Sherlock's nostrils flared slightly. His mouth narrowed to a thin line. "No one regrets it more than I," he replied sweetly, making himself comfortable on the arm of John's chair.

 

"Sherlock?" John said, giving him a look that contained both question and warning. But at least he was letting him continue. Sherlock decided to press his advantage and grab the bull by the horns.

 

"What's he doing here?" Sherlock asked, nodding in a disparaging way in Mycroft's direction.

 

"Discussing something with me," John answered with deliberate calmness. "With me, Sherlock. Not with you."

 

"Does it concern me?"

 

John's eyes widened in surprise at Sherlock's question. "No, what the hell? What makes you think that?"

 

"Because he's always thought he was the centre of the universe," Mycroft remarked cynically. "I see that hasn't changed."

 

"I'd say the two of you could give each other a run for the money in that regard," John returned dryly.

 

Mycroft appeared insulted at the comparison, which in turn amused Sherlock. John sighed a bit and looked up at Sherlock.

 

"Since you're not going to give me any peace otherwise... A bomb exploded at the police ball last night."

 

Sherlock frowned. "And what does that have to do with you?"

 

"Nothing. And I've been able to convince Mr Holmes of that in the meantime. However, someone intended it to look like an act of revenge on my part. Mike just told me that customs checked out one of my deliveries and - obviously - found something."

 

"It must go on your account, dear brother, that Mr Watson was unable to be informed of the affair with customs in a timely manner." Mycroft turned to John with an arrogant smirk. "Really? _Sherlock_ was the thing that demanded your complete attention?"

 

"Yes," was John's simple answer.

 

"Jealous, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked smugly.

 

"Let's return to the topic at hand," Mycroft said dismissively, with a sour, forced smile.

 

"Gladly," John agreed, grinning widely and showing all his teeth. "When we were interrupted, you were just about to tell me why you immediately thought I was the culprit. Were there any clues pointing to me? A letter claiming responsibility or something like that?"

 

"No. Nothing."

 

John shot Mycroft an irritated look. "But why..."

 

"Because you already threatened to kill Detective Inspector Lestrade once if I didn't bow to your demands."

 

"Ah," John said impassively. "That makes sense. Is he dead?"

 

"Injured," Mycroft corrected him so neutrally that Sherlock's ears perked up. "As were many other police officers. Fortunately, there were no mortalities reported."

 

"Shame," John said. "Would have saved me quite a bit of trouble if he'd bit it. But you can't have everything."

 

Sherlock noticed that Mycroft's face appeared slightly pained. Could it be... No. Or yes? Was it possible that his brother and this Inspector...

 

Did he still know his brother well enough to be able to gauge his behaviour? Was it typical for him to march straight in here and rake John over the coals for a bomb that had caused only a few injuries? Because that's exactly what he'd done. He could tell by the tight expression at the corner of John's mouth. Sherlock shook his head to himself and kept watching Mycroft with a sceptical eye. Mycroft never got worked up like this. At most when Sherlock - following great effort and perseverance - succeeded in driving him to a white-hot fury. But to make such a brouhaha over a couple of wounded policemen and even dare to set foot in the lion's den like this? No... there must be more to it than that. But an _affair_ \- of whatever kind - with an Inspector from Scotland Yard seemed just as far-fetched to Sherlock. Mycroft didn't possess a single grain of compassion nor a single ounce of emotion - how could he possibly be interested in another person in _that way_ , much less hope to win them over for himself?

 

"What kind of bomb was it?" Sherlock wanted to know.

 

Mycroft looked peeved but answered, albeit with a brief hesitation. "It was hidden in the base of an ice sculpture. There was a hollowed-out space that was originally meant to house some lighting effects or other. That's why no one noticed the bomb. Everyone thought it was part of the equipment. It wasn't just the explosion that did the damage; the flying ice shards caused quite a few injuries."

 

Oh yes... Sherlock recognised that well enough. Whenever Mycroft answered in such detail, he was trying to deflect from something else.

 

"What exactly did the ice sculpture depict?"

 

"Fish," Mycroft answered so promptly and so casually that Sherlock knew he'd hit the nail on the head.

 

"What kind of fish?" he pressed.

 

He could see Mycroft grinding his teeth together. "Koi carp," he finally explained with a tight smile. "It was a facsimile of two koi fish."

 

Sherlock blinked. Mycroft's piercing gaze virtually seemed to be inviting him to make fun of him. But Sherlock was much too confused by the confirmation of his suspicion than to do Mycroft the favour. In Japan, koi fish were a symbol of friendship and … love. Sherlock knew that. And Mycroft must know it as well. Mycroft knew things like that. Had Mycroft been struck by Cupid's arrow? The notion was so outlandish, so foreign, that Sherlock had no idea what to do with it.

 

"Did you order the sculpture?" he asked.

 

"I had nothing to do with the catering!"

 

"If you say so," Sherlock retorted somewhat snidely. "You always have your hand in everything! Especially where food is concerned!"

 

"Sherlock, I'm warning you!"

 

"Or what?!"

 

"HELLO?!" John shouted, interrupting them. Two heads jerked around towards him, irked and a little shamefaced. "Is anyone other than me interested in the fact that someone's trying to pit the mob and the politicians against each other?"

 

Sherlock sniffed arrogantly. "He started it."

 

Mycroft dug his fingers into the armrests and fixed his brother with a penetrant glare.

"When will you ever learn to act like a Holmes - or at least like a reasonable human being?" he asked, having a hard time remaining in control.

 

Sherlock gave him a derisive look. "It astounds me every time that you are so deeply invested in returning me to the heart and hearth of the Holmes clan - you, who never wanted me to be a member of such an illustrious family in the first place."

 

"Our father offered you the protection of his name, and I simply cannot fathom how you can walk all over a gift like that with your behaviour! Nevertheless, I have absolutely no desire to return you to heart and hearth - as you put it so poetically. The less I see or hear of you the better. And that seems to be fairly assured with you … here." Mycroft laid in an artful pause, but Sherlock was too busy thinking about what Mycroft had just said to reply anyway. Had he heard correctly? Mycroft was giving him up voluntarily? He wanted to leave him here with John? Without any... return favours? Without any conditions? Just like that? Sherlock wanted for it to be true, but when had anything good ever happened to him? He stared at Mycroft, suspicious and just a bit breathless. Mycroft returned his gaze with slightly narrowed eyes.

 

"At least you stay in one place here of your own free will instead of continually running away," Mycroft added. "Although I do wonder how Mr Watson puts up with you day in and day out, given your unparalleled conduct."

 

"John..." Sherlock began, somewhat at a loss, falling silent with relief when he felt John's hand on his back. He hadn't known what to say to that. _'John likes me the way I am,'_ and _'John isn't quite such an arse as you,'_ would have been two of the options. Both were more or less the truth, yet the former would have been too intimate and the latter would only have cemented Mycroft's opinion that Sherlock didn't know how to behave.

 

John graced Mycroft with a wide, sickly-sweet smile. "Well, you know, Mr Holmes," he declared carelessly, "he's never like that with me."

 

Mycroft raised a single eyebrow to express his extreme scepticism. "In the current circumstances, I find that difficult to believe."

 

John let out a short, light chuckle. "What am I supposed to do now? Prove it to you? Should I make Sherlock sit up and beg so you can see he toes the line with me?"

 

Sherlock felt all the security and tentative triumph he'd garnered leave him just as quickly as they'd come. John had stood up for him with Mycroft, but his last remark made a block of ice form in Sherlock's stomach. John wouldn't demand that he debase himself like that in front of Mycroft, would he? He couldn't! Not _John_?! He looked down at John, hardly daring to believe it yet with a sense of foreboding. But John was still fixated on Mycroft and wasn't paying any attention to Sherlock.

 

The corner of John's mouth twitched, and his smile suddenly turned into a derisive smirk. "You'd be waiting a long time for that," he remarked. "Sherlock... is my business, and mine alone. We don't need to prove anything to anyone."

 

Boundless relief coursed through Sherlock, and his spirits rose higher. John's hand still rested warm and firm against his back.

 

"Mycroft's not the only one who would have been left waiting for me to sit up and beg," Sherlock couldn't help adding.

 

Now John looked up to him, a warm smile twinkling in his eye. "Until kingdom come, I presume?"

 

"At least," Sherlock returned, letting himself fall just a little bit into those eyes, despite Mycroft's presence.

 

To say that Mycroft Holmes was surprised by this little scene would have been a massive understatement. He didn't let it show, but the affection that both John Watson and his accursed brother exhibited (at least when one knew what to look for) both annoyed and bewildered him. He couldn't understand how insolent backtalk like that could elicit such insipid happiness as a mob boss like John Watson had just displayed. How could anyone feel something like that for Sherlock? His brother had never been anything but a massive headache. A thorn in the side of society. How had he ever managed to get Doc Watson - whom Mycroft had deemed to be a highly intelligent man up to now - so obviously besotted with him?

 

Mycroft cleared his throat, and John broke his eye contact with Sherlock in order to turn to his guest once more.

 

"The employees of the catering service responsible for transporting the ice sculpture were found dead in the courtyard behind the company. They were hidden beneath some cardboard boxes and wearing only their underwear."

 

John's eyebrows drew together. "The bombers used their clothes to disguise themselves as employees... we need descriptions of those two men."

 

"Oh no..." Sherlock smiled thinly. "We won't need that."

 

"Of course we do, Sherlock. How else are we supposed to..." John objected, but then he saw the look the two brothers were giving each other.

 

"Mycroft... you no doubt disregarded any regulations governing privacy and riddled that hall with security cameras, didn't you."

 

Mycroft nodded slowly. "I'll have the recordings analysed."

 

John stared at him, furious. "Why haven't you done that already?"

 

"Because I believed you were the guilty party. Why chase after Indians when you know where the chief lives?"

 

"A pretty analogy," Sherlock remarked dryly and stood. "It looks like you don't need me here any longer."

 

A tired yet condescending smile played at the corners of Mycroft's lips. "As if we ever needed you," he said acidly.

 

Sherlock returned the tired smile, spicing it with a dash of venom. "Fine, then I'll go shower and wash John's semen off my body."

 

He went to the door, intentionally letting go of the sheet in order to open it. As if by accident, he let it slide down lower and lower until both John and Mycroft had an unimpeded view of his naked arse. Then he left the room, closing the door with deliberate care. There wasn't any clearer way of saying, _'Bite me!'_

 

John took a deep breath and bit his tongue so as not to burst out laughing. What a performance! What an exit!

 

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Charming. You already have quite serious feelings for him." He graced John with a smug smirk.

 

John wrinkled his forehead. "What makes you say that?"

 

"You don't use condoms," Mycroft Holmes noted. "How else would certain... secretions end up on my brother's body?" He appeared nauseated for a moment. "Since I don't take you to have a death wish, that means, conversely, that you both have agreed on a certain... exclusivity - and that in turn presupposes the presence of... feelings."

 

John gave him a hard look, a deep sense of antipathy developing for his … his... _Sherlock's_ brother.

 

"I've simply never been good with sharing my toys," he responded coolly.

 

Mycroft Holmes blinked slowly before taking a deep breath. "Sherlock has always been somewhat eccentric. I blame his mother's genes."

 

"There's nothing wrong with his genes," John retorted firmly. "He's just the way he's supposed to be."

 

"Truly... _charming_ ," Mycroft Holmes drawled. "And I must admit, after the statement you just made, a bit surprising. You're defending him. A toy doesn't need defending. Might it be that... you, of all people, trust someone like my brother?"

 

John would have gladly given his guest a fast one to the jaw. Gladly. Where did this person get off talking about Sherlock like that? Where did he get off forming a negative opinion of him, John Watson, based solely on his poor opinion of Sherlock? John deliberately moved his hands to the armrests of his chair.

 

"I think it's essential for men in our position to have people they can trust. Don't you?" he explained with all the calm and condescension he was capable of at the moment.

 

An arrogant smile curled the mayor's lips. "I don't trust anyone, if it can be avoided. I prefer to concur with the philosopher, general, and strategist Sun Tzu: _keep your friends close and your enemies closer._ "

 

"Sun Tzu? Are you sure? Because that was also in _The Godfather, Part 2_ ," John retorted sarcastically, enjoying Mycroft Holmes' bewildered look just for a moment.

 

Then the mayor braced himself and stood up. "I need to be going. The press conference," he said shortly. "You'll hear from me."

 

John rose as well, but neither made made a move to shake the other man's hand.

 

"By the way... I had the concierge replaced," Holmes remarked smoothly. "Nice idea you had there. Very nice."

 

"Your brother's the one who deserves the laurels. It was Sherlock's idea," John corrected him. "There wasn't anything interesting in your flat anyway."

 

A thin-lipped smile appeared on Mycroft Holmes' face. "I'm not stupid, Mr Watson."

 

"Neither is your brother."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

As soon as Mycroft Holmes hurried off to his press conference, John went up to the first floor. He glanced through the living room door at Mike, who had fallen asleep on the couch. The all-nighter had apparently taken its toll. The meagre remains of the hearty breakfast were still standing on the table. John would have to sort Mike and all the other problems later. He softly retreated and went into his bathroom.

 

Sherlock was there, reclining in a luxurious bubble bath with his eyes closed. He didn't move even when John closed the door behind himself, shaking his head.

 

"Sherlock? What... what are you doing in the bath? I thought you wanted to take a shower?"

 

Sherlock opened one eye to look at John then closed it again. He said, "Of all the questions you could ask me, that's the one you choose?"

 

"I didn't know I only had a limited number of questions at my disposal," John said, leaning back against the sink with his arms crossed over his chest.

 

Sherlock opened both eyes and glared at John.

 

"What was that just now anyway? Was that really necessary?" John asked patiently.

 

"Yes."

 

John sighed. "All right, fine. But Sherlock... trying to make your brother think we fucked three times already this morning... he didn't buy that for a second."

 

"Oh yes, he did!" Sherlock retorted vehemently. "Or he would have believed me. But one look at you was enough to tell him it was only twice, and last night at that. Really, John! I try to bolster your image as a stud in bed and you muck it all up."

 

Teetering between amusement and anger, John's voice quivered as he asked, " _Only_ twice? How long has it been since I've had you over my knee?"

 

"Too long!" Sherlock answered grumpily.

 

John laughed. Mycroft, Charlie, the bomber... they could all do without his attention for another half hour. There'd be time for all of that later. He started to take off his shirt.

 

"Is there still room in the tub?"

 

"Mmmhh," Sherlock rumbled and closed his eyes again.

 

John had to smile at Sherlock's attitude. He wasn't entirely sure what bee had crawled into his bonnet, but he had an idea. His smile faded and he became serious.

 

"You know, Sherlock, no matter what your daft brother says or thinks or does... _I_ need you."

 

John bent over to take his shoes off, and when he straightened up again, two pale, clear eyes were beaming at him.

 

"Really?" Sherlock murmured with that combination of fascination and disbelief that told John he'd said just the right thing.

 

"Of course," he replied simply, stepping out of his trousers. "Of course I need you. Never doubt that."

 

"I'll make a note of it," Sherlock said with almost solemn gravity, switching into _'spoilt aristocrat'_ mode so fast it made John's head spin. "And now get into the tub before the water goes completely cold!"

 

John shook his head, laughing. No, things would never be boring with Sherlock.

 

When he was seated in the tub behind Sherlock, Sherlock let his head fall back against John's shoulder.

 

"Say it again..." Sherlock asked softly.

 

"What?"

 

"The part... about Mycroft..."

 

John laughed a little. "That your brother's daft?" Sherlock sighed happily and John laughed again. "Your brother's daft. And I really wonder how you managed to resist the temptation to kill him for so many years. I'm almost there myself. It can't have been a lack of opportunity on your part."

 

Sherlock appeared to give the matter serious consideration. "I don't know either," he finally mused. "Probably because I always thought he was better than me. At least that's what everyone else believed..."

 

"And now you don't think that anymore?"

 

"I'm beginning to have my doubts."

 

Neither man said anything for a while. Then John pressed a kiss into the unruly curls and whispered, "I think we need to talk..."

 

"Do we have to?" Sherlock whinged.

 

"Where did you pick up such an aversion to... Oh, right... I forgot... it's never ended well for you," John answered his own question.

 

"Exactly," Sherlock agreed with a certain satisfaction.

 

"Sherlock... have any of our conversations ever ended badly for you?" John asked gently.

 

"I..." Sherlock began, only to fall silent. John could virtually hear the cogs turning in his brain. "I... don't believe so..." Sherlock finally said, both hesitant and with a certain amount of wonder.

 

"You see," John said.

 

Sherlock sighed in resignation. "All right, fine... what do you want to talk about?"

 

"Oh, I don't know..." John remarked casually. "The weather... or... _yesterday_! I want to talk to you about _yesterday_ , of course! What else?!"

 

"Why?"

 

"Why?" John echoed, perplexed. "Well... because..."

 

"Do we need to talk it to death?" Sherlock cut him off quietly.

 

John wrapped his arms a little more tightly around Sherlock and pulled him in closer. "No. We don't. I just wanted you to know that I... it was very..." He took a deep breath and then said, "You were wonderful. Thank you."

 

"John..." Sherlock said, somewhat at a loss and even more touched. "What... what am I supposed to..."

 

"Don't say anything, Sherlock," John murmured into the wild curls. "You don't need to say anything." After a brief pause, he went on: "Have you urinated today? Is everything all right or do you have any pain? Any burning when you go?"

 

"No, it's... I mean, yes - I've passed urine and everything was fine... the same as usual. No blood, no pain, no burning..." Sherlock answered, trying to hide the thickness in his voice by clearing his throat.

 

Because right then, at that very moment, it hit Sherlock with crystal clarity that he was in love with John Watson.

 

John - who had taken _his_ side against Mycroft.

 

John - who said he needed _him_.

 

John - who was convinced _he_ was just as good as Mycroft.

 

John - who thanked _him_ for... for something so huge there weren't any words to express _Sherlock's_ gratitude...

 

 _'I love him,'_ Sherlock thought to himself, stunned. _'Oh my God... I love John Watson.'_

 

He loved him... with every fibre of his body, of his heart, and of his soul.

 

The sudden realisation hit Sherlock like a ton of bricks, and he felt panic slowly but surely rising in him.

 

What was he supposed to do now?

 

Torn between happiness and despair, he tried to rein in his emotions without letting anything show.

 

But it wasn't until he felt John's warm lips on the back of his neck, and John adjusted his half-hard penis into a more comfortable position so that it was resting against Sherlock's back, a gentle pressure there - it wasn't until then that he relaxed and melted back into the close embrace, as John ran some more hot water into the tub.

 

 _'Maybe... maybe...'_ he thought, and a deep yearning threatened to overwhelm him.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_**To be continued...** _

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

My inspiration for the scene between John, Sherlock, and Mycroft is from here:

 

<http://mrs-mob-johnlocked.tumblr.com/post/50675731618/mob-au-boss-john-bought-the-first-night-of>

 

Btw... the rapid progress (of the German version) of this story was all due to the most understanding husband of all times, who left me completely alone and let me write all through my holidays until my fingertips were glowing.

And since I started posting the English version... every Monday he's asking at least twice a day: 'Are there any new comments?'

To make it brief... I guess the poor guy wants some comment-snuggles. *sigh* Could you guys do that? I mean, after all, he's been a certified plotbunny breeder for years now! :D

 

 


	32. Turning Points - Part Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation by the most awesome SwissMiss!
> 
> And I have to thank you all for the amazing amount of amazing comments.  
> I'll try to answer them all, but at the moment I don't have enough time to do so. But be assured, I adore everyone of them to pieces! Feel free to drown me with even more comments ;-)

 

**Chapter 32: Turning Points - Part 3**

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Later that same terrible day - following a terrible night - Mycroft Holmes was alone in his flat, sitting at the dining table of highly polished, red cherrywood. His jacket and tie were hanging over the back of his chair. A tumbler of American bourbon was on the table in front of him with two ice cubes floating in it.

 

Mycroft propped his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands. Then he straightened up again, undid the first two buttons of his shirt, picked up the glass, leaned back in his chair, and took the first sip. He closed his eyes, waiting for the gentle burn of the alcohol to drive the chill out of his bones which was making him shiver from the inside despite the summer heat.

 

It didn't do any good. He finally opened his eyes again. If he kept them closed for too long, his brain kept replaying the image of the Inspector collapsing... Rarely had he ever felt so helpless. He took a second sip of his drink and heard Gregory's voice saying, ' _Jealous_?' No sooner had the word faded away than the memory of Sherlock's own ' _Jealous_?' forced its way to the forefront of his mind. He shook his head, resisting the thought. Even more unwelcome was the memory of John Watson's condescending remark: _'I think it's essential for men in our position to have people they can trust.'_

 

As incredible as it might sound, John Watson appeared to have found just such a person in his impossible brother, Sherlock, whereas he, himself... Mycroft held back a low-pitched expletive. Yes, he'd had a say in the form of the ice sculpture. Yes, he'd planned on engaging Gregory in a casual conversation - accompanied by a glass of champagne - and mentioning koi fish in general, as well as their meaning in Japan. Nothing more than that.

 

But now... Mycroft shook his head. Now he had to give the order to analyse the footage from his - not entirely legal - security cameras. And then... there was one more call to make.

 

He took his mobile phone out of the breast pocket of his shirt and dialed a number he knew by heart.

 

"Hello, Mummy... it's me... Yes. I know. No, I... Of course, after the attack I do have more important things to do than call you. I simply thought it might interest you that I'm doing well... At the charity bazaar? I didn't know that... All right, I _knew_ it, you did tell me. Yes, Mummy. I... I'm sorry to bother you, but... Of course - please give the vicar my regards. Yes, Mummy, I... no, don't hang up!" Mycroft breathed out a short sigh when the connection remained intact. "I'm sorry for wasting your time... Yes, I should have come directly to the point... Yes, I know you hate nothing more than meaningless chit-chat..."

 

Mycroft endured his mother's ensuing monologue with stoicism - just the way she had taught him. During a brief pause in the flow of words, however, he realised that he was no longer seventeen years old, having just been caught in the act of preparing to compose an especially florid piece of poetry. Something like that was the worst kind of time-waster in Sylvia Holmes' opinion.

 

"Mummy, you must still have all of our old things, don't you? Sherlock's old violin as well? Wonderful. This evening, if I were to... Of course, Mummy. _Tomorrow_ then, if I were to... yes, _before_ your bridge club... if I were to send someone over, might you be able to..."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

No one knew that just then, while Mycroft Holmes was on the phone with his mother, the dustmen were destroying valuable evidence by transporting the contents of the rubbish bin containing the waiter's apron and the gum to the next incinerating plant.

 

No one... other than Jim Moriarty, who had planned it that way, and now wondered when the horn was finally going to be sounded on the hunt to bring down Doc Watson.

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

The day after his meeting with Doc Watson, Mycroft Holmes found his way once again to the house that served as the rendezvous point for himself and the mob boss. His counterpart was late once again, meaning that Mycroft was in a snippish mood when John Watson finally appeared, entering the living room without his bodyguards.

 

"Must it be this house every time?" Mycroft asked with the demeanour of the long-suffering. "Couldn't we meet somewhere else? Anywhere else?"

 

John pretended to think about it.

 

"Sure," he then agreed. "Next time we can meet in a blue movie house. I would have thought you'd prefer the ambience here, but if not I stand corrected."

 

Mycroft gave him a sour smile. "Is there something wrong with your watch?" he shot back. "If so, I'd be happy to purchase you a new one... However, if there's nothing wrong with yours, then I wonder why you make me wait every time?"

 

A broad grin appeared on John's face as he flashed all his teeth. "There are two ways to answer that," he answered. "The polite way and the honest way. Which do you want?" When Mycroft continued to stare at him coldly, John continued with a shrug: "The polite answer would have been: I'm really very sorry, Mr Holmes, but I'm a busy man, just like you... The honest answer would have been: because - I - can."

 

Mycroft lifted his chin with an arrogant smile. "You misunderstand your position, _Doc_. You want something from _me_. Not the other way round."

 

John lowered his eyes, then looked up again, his head tilted to one side. "Exactly. I want something from you. I want those pictures from your security cameras. And I want them now."

 

"And what do I get out of it?" Mycroft returned, most uncooperatively. "This deal seems rather one-sided so far."

 

"I'll tell you what you get out of it: me." John spread out both arms to present himself. But it was getting harder and harder for him to curb his impatience.

 

"You," Mycroft Holmes repeated dryly.

 

"Yes, me. If I don't find whoever it is that's sawing away so furiously at my chair, then it's _'Adios, John Watson'_ , and you can - a) still plant primroses on my grave and - b) end up having to deal with another boss who may not be as understanding as me. Would be a crying shame if my successor declared war on you, now that we understand each other so well, wouldn't it?" John asked with a cold, oily smile. "So... you see, in order to keep peace on the streets of London, I need those pictures."

 

"I'm beginning to wonder whether, of the two of you, Sherlock's not the one who has the greater burden to bear..." Holmes mused.

 

"Mr Holmes, I'm warning you, my patience has just about run out. In fact, it has." With a lightning-quick, fluid motion, John drew his gun from the shoulder holster under his jacket and pointed it at Mycroft Holmes. "You can give me the pictures now. _Please_ ," he added coolly, releasing the safety. "Sooner would be better than later."

 

But his opponent made no move to do anything. He continued to gaze into the barrel of John's weapon with stoic calm. John frowned. Why didn't these Holmeses ever get scared? It was enough to drive him batty!

 

"No, I can't do that," Holmes said, now directing his gaze at John, who stared at him with a disbelief that quickly made way for a murderous rage.

 

"I'm not in the mood for games, Mr Holmes," he replied in a dangerously soft voice. "I had a pretty shitty day yesterday, and it's not over yet. So in your own interest: give me the fucking pictures RIGHT NOW."

 

Mycroft Holmes bit down on his lip. "I'm afraid you weren't listening carefully," he accused John. "I said I _cannot_ do that. Not that I _don't want_ to."

 

John inhaled audibly through his nose. His index finger twitched on the trigger. Then - as if it took a great effort of will - he clicked the safety back on and lowered the muzzle.

 

"All right... and why _can't_ you give me the pictures?"

 

A gentle blush rose to the other man's cheeks, to John's surprise.

 

"Because I don't have them."

 

"WHAT?"

 

"You heard me perfectly well, Mr Watson," Mycroft answered with an attempt at a condescending tone. It wasn't entirely successful. "I don't have any pictures."

 

"But..."

 

"We were only able to use wireless, remote-controlled cameras," Holmes explained. He obviously found the whole thing embarrassing, although he tried to cover it with his usual pomposity. "I couldn't very well string cables all over the place, and the cameras I finally decided on were so small that they were able to be placed such that they were completely invisible."

 

The mayor stopped there, not giving any sign of continuing.

 

"And...?" John finally prompted him with a deathly glare.

 

"And... then... I don't know what happened," Holmes went on with a restrained - but no less heavy - sigh. "Up to the point in time when I began my speech, the image quality is perfect, but after that... nothing but static. Interference. There isn't any footage of the delivery of the ice sculpture or the alleged waiters."

 

"How could that happen?" John hissed.

 

"I... don't know," Holmes confessed, looking John in the eye. "I do not know. I presume something like a jammer was used that was set to the frequency of the cameras."

 

John saw how hard it was for the mayor to concede the defeat. Still, it was inexcusable. Completely inexcusable and utter...

 

"SHIT!" John screamed.

 

Mycroft Holmes stood there as stiff as a block of ice, waiting until John stopped cursing.

 

"I see no need to use such an excess of vulgar language," he then chided. "That doesn't get us any further."

 

John ran a hand through his hair. An indescribable turmoil roiled inside him. Why was everything going wrong? Why? And unfortunately, Holmes was also right with his priggish attitude. No one had ever won a fight on curses alone. The only thing that was going to help here was to remain as calm as possible.

 

"All right," John said slowly, returned the gun to its holster and noted with quiet gratification that Holmes appeared to be a tiny bit more at ease than before. It seemed he wasn't quite as cold a fish as he wanted people to believe. "If we don't have any pictures, then... then we need a description of the suspects. Someone must have noticed them!"

 

"No, no one..." Holmes said guardedly. "As soon as someone puts on a waiter's uniform, he becomes invisible to most people. The only exception..."

 

"The only exception...? It's like pulling teeth with you! Which I don't particularly want to have to do."

 

"Detective Inspector Lestrade noticed them."

 

"I never would have thought I'd be glad I _didn't_ kill him," John remarked dryly.

 

Holmes' features twisted into a painful grimace for a fraction of a second, but then he regained control over himself and forced his expression back into a neutral deadpan.

 

"It won't do us much good... Inspector Lestrade was hit on the head by a large chunk of ice and is suffering from partial amnesia."

 

John rubbed his hand over his face. He couldn't believe it! Which higher power exactly had he offended? Someone up there really had it in for him! There was no other way of explaining why everything that could possibly go wrong, was.

 

"Who says?" he pressed, albeit without much hope.

 

"His doctors. He has virtually no memory of the evening... All that he believes to recall is that one of the men was blond and the other dark-haired," Holmes informed him readily.

 

"That could be anyone," John declared with resignation. "That doesn't help us one whit. Damn... It looks like the police really are going to have to take this one on for once."

 

Holmes raised one eyebrow. "Oh?"

 

"Yeah, I'll tell Dimmock he'd better find the bomber or else I'll tear him a new one from his arse to his neck."

 

Mycroft Holmes closed his eyes for a moment in disgust.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

The sound of his mobile shredded the remnants of Mike Stamford's deep sleep, along with his sweet, sweet dreams. His wife Susan, lying beside him, was a lighter sleeper and therefore already awake enough to form words; she could also coordinate the movement of her limbs, which Mike knew because she jammed a sharp elbow rather hard into his well-padded ribs.

 

"Miiike... your phone..."

 

"Yeah, yeah... I hear it..." Mike mumbled, still half asleep as he tried to open his eyes. It was no use. The all-nighter at the customs office was three days ago now, but he was still feeling the effects and it had thrown his sleep schedule completely off.

 

"Then answer it!"

 

"'mgettingit," Mike grumbled.

 

"Miiiike... bumblekins... it's still ringing!"

 

Mike listened to the ring tone. It wasn't one of the pre-programmed, personalised ring tones that Mike used to identify callers, so it couldn't be very urgent.

 

"Oh, man!" his better half swore in annoyance. She rolled half on top of him, reached out and fished the mobile off his nightstand. "Stamford!" she answered in a curt tone that made Mike flinch.

 

"Who? Oh... of course I know who you are, Mr Sigerson..."

 

Mike blinked. Sherlock? At this time of night? What time was it anyway? Maybe something had happened to John... But then his wife continued speaking in a soft, enticing voice, and Mike's eyes popped open in surprise.

 

"All right... _Sherlock_... but only if you call me Susan." She laughed.

 

It wasn't just any laugh; it was her coloratura laugh (as John had called it once), which she only used on very rare occasions. Usually when she was flirting or when someone was whispering sweet nothings into her ear. Since when did John's gay lover flirt with _his_ wife? Mike sat up in bed and groped gracelessly for his phone, but Susan evaded him.

 

"What? No, of course not... it's fine... no, no... you can call here anytime... No, it's no problem at all..."

 

"Susan!" Mike hissed. "Give me the phone!"

 

Susan covered the mouthpiece with her hand. "Oh, now all of a sudden?" she shot back, then listened again to what Sherlock was saying, giggling. "No... I really shouldn't listen to a word you say... But I think you wanted to talk to Mike, didn't you? Yes, he should be capable of speech now..." Mike watched, his eyes round, as Susan tossed her hair over her shoulder. "No, Sherlock... thank _you_. Yes, I'll pass it on to Mike now. Bye-b-"

 

"Give it here," Mike cursed under his breath and tore the mobile out of her hand before she could even finish saying good-bye. But instead of telling him off, a small, dreamy smile played at the corners of her mouth.

 

"Such a charming man," she whispered softly to Mike. "Be nice to him now!"

 

Mike put the phone to his ear and got out of bed. No matter what the call was about, there was no way he was going to take it with his wife lying next to him with that beatific smile on her face. A smile that another man had put there... and all he'd done was talk to her _on the phone._.. _and_ he was gay on top of it!

 

"Yeah, Sherlock? What's up? Did something happen to John?"

 

"No... although John is the reason I'm calling," the answer came from the other end of the line.

 

"Oh God, what happened?" Mike asked, having found his way to the living room even with his glasses lying forgotten on the nightstand.

 

"I said nothing happened... although..."

 

"Sherlock, stop speaking in riddles!" Mike cried, exasperated. "What time is it anyway? And where are you calling from?"

 

"It's three-thirty and I'm calling from my mobile."

 

"You have a mobile?"

 

"Why shouldn't I have a mobile? John gave me one months ago... I've simply never used it."

 

Mike rubbed the rest of the sleep out of his eyes. "And why are you calling me at this ungodly hour?"

 

A snort sounded. "So John doesn't notice, obviously."

 

"Oh," Mike said. "Sherlock... is... is everything all right with you? Should I... Can I do something for you?"

 

"What?" Sherlock sounded confused.

 

"Are you all right?" Mike repeated his question.

 

"Of course I'm all right, why shouldn't I be all right?"

 

"Because I... because I gave you my number specifically for that reason!" Mike burst out tiredly. "For emergencies."

 

"Oh right, the card..." Sherlock said as understanding dawned. "I binned it right after you gave it to me."

 

"Binned...?!" Mike groaned. There was no helping the man. "But where did you get my number then?"

 

"I memorised it," Sherlock responded promptly. "And even if I hadn't remembered it exactly, I could have found it somewhere in John's papers."

 

Mike took a deep, cleansing breath. "Okay. From the top, once again. Where are you right now?"

 

"In the office. Where else?"

 

"Good. And what the hell is so important and secret that John can't know about it and you need to call me at three-thirty in the morning?" Mike ranted.

 

"I want to know everything about the trouble John's having," Sherlock explained, unimpressed.

 

"Why?" Mike asked straight out.

 

"Because I... want to help him."

 

Mike took note of the slight hesitation in Sherlock's answer. The minimal pause that anyone else with a less temperamental wife than Susan would have missed completely. But Mike noticed the tiny hitch and suspected that Sherlock had wanted to say something other than what he'd actually said.

 

And so Mike inquired, "Why don't you ask him yourself?" Not that he was questioning Sherlock's motives - Sherlock was as loyal to John as Mike was - but still, he wanted to know. He at least wanted to try to get a handle on the secret he'd scented in that hesitation.

 

Sherlock laughed briefly. He didn't exactly sound amused. "Because he'd probably never tell me everything... either because he doesn't want me to worry, or..." There was that hesitation again, this time more distinct, more pronounced, and therefore - oddly - less suspicious. "Or because he doesn't want to expose to me how helpless he really is."

 

"Yeah, that sounds about right," Mike agreed. "He knows he isn't perfect, but he doesn't mind letting other people think he is."

 

"Now that that's settled..." Sherlock said with a low, impatient sigh. "Could we get to the matter at hand? Whereby I should mention that John's already told me quite a lot about the whole situation with Charlie."

 

"He has?" Mike said, astonished. Oh ho... if that was true, then John had figuratively _dropped his drawers_ to an extent that was fairly out of character for him...

 

"Yes," Sherlock responded shortly. "Could we now _please_..."

 

"Yeah, yeah," Mike said, and told Sherlock all that he could about the incidents that had been making life difficult for John recently. When he was done, Sherlock remained silent for so long that Mike felt compelled to ask, "Are you still there?"

 

"I'm thinking!" was the brusque answer, and the silence went on a while longer.

 

Mike rolled his eyes, but kept obligingly quiet.

 

"That can't be all. I can't see any pattern! Something must have happened before!" Sherlock exclaimed so abruptly that Mike started.

 

"You know... the usual small beans," Mike explained, trying to downplay things, but did end up telling him about the problems with Bayswater Road and the trouble with the boys in Roehampton at Christmas that John had had to deal with personally because Mike had been on holiday with Susan.

 

"Then there was the fiasco with the mayoral election - but you know about that... and you also know about the mess in Soho and Graves' swindle - you're the one who discovered it after all. Same with the bung-up with Albright's nephew in Lambeth. You were there when Albright lit into us for that."

 

"Mmmhhh..." Sherlock said, apparently lost in thought. "Was there ever anything mentioned about a blond man in connection with any of those events?"

 

"No... all we found was an envelope with the initials J and M on it, like a return address, and a telephone number... when we called, there was a recording... the name ' _Jim_ ' was mentioned there. John suspected for a while that it was the same person. But you know all this already - you were there when John and I discussed it."

 

"And?" Sherlock prodded keenly. "What about this Jim? Did anything ever come of it?"

 

"Nothing," Mike answered, shrugging his shoulders. "We didn't have anything to go on... the whole thing ended up being a dead end."

 

"And now the incident with the bomb..." Sherlock mused. "They can't all be coincidences. There must be a connection. Something they all have in common. If only we knew who sent Charlie..."

 

"Have fun looking for the needle in that haystack." Mike chuckled in resignation. "According to what John's told me, Charlie was dead certain John was the one who'd hired him... of course through someone who was posing as a middleman. Ridiculous. That someone would actually fall for a trick like that..."

 

Sherlock remained silent.

 

Mike became uncertain. "Sherlock?"

 

"If Charlie was so sure the middleman was sent by John..." Sherlock said slowly. "Then it must have been someone Charlie knew... or at least recognised on sight."

 

"No." Mike rejected the idea flat out. He had a suspicion what this was leading up to and he didn't want to hear it.

 

"It was someone from the mob," Sherlock continued mercilessly. "Someone who's made it high enough up in the hierarchy to be known."

 

"No," Mike repeated, but it was only a weak protest.

 

"There's a rotten apple in John's organisation," Sherlock declared with an odd sort of satisfaction. "I think I know where to start digging now."

 

"You?" Mike croaked, stunned. "What do you think you can do? I have to..."

 

"No, Mike!" Sherlock cut him off. "You don't have to do anything. John is not to hear of this! He'll only go and do something rash, and then this sinister opponent will be forewarned. In the meantime, I'll put out some feelers."

 

"Sherlock..." Mike rasped, his voice fading.

 

"Yes, yes... if I find out anything, you'll be the first one to know," Sherlock maintained, although it didn't inspire much confidence. "Send me a picture of Charlie White at this number by tomorrow morning." Then he rang off.

 

Mike stared dazedly into the distance, the phone still pressed to his ear. The dial tone sounded, and he wished with all his might that he could discount everything as some feverish dream. But maybe it really was better to heed Sherlock's advice (all right, it had been an order, but Mike refused to acknowledge that) and not tell John anything about Sherlock's suspicions.

 

It sounded so contrived and far-fetched anyway that Mike simply couldn't believe it... and didn't want to, either. Still, it could never hurt to be a bit more alert.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Right after ending his call with Mike, Sherlock dialed another number on his mobile. Someone answered after the first ring; someone who was wide awake despite the advanced hour.

 

"Jason... I need that favour you owe me... I'll be sending you a picture in the next couple of days. The man in the picture is Charlie White. He's dead, but that's irrelevant. I need to know where he hung out in the two weeks prior to his death, and who he had contact with. I..." Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "What... who this is...? It's me! Sherlock! I always took that client off your hands who disgusted you so much because he was ginger."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Greg Lestrade entered the reception area of Mycroft Holmes' office. His secretary, a petite blonde woman already past the first bloom of youth, knew him by now and gave him a smile that quickly turned apologetic when he explained that he wanted to speak to the mayor.

 

"Oh, Inspector Lestrade, I thought you only wanted to drop something off for Mr Holmes..." She seemed uncertain. "I don't have you down for an appointment..."

 

Greg nodded. "That's probably because I don't have one."

 

Her smile became a touch frostier. "Then unfortunately, I'm afraid I can't do anything for you. If you don't have an appointment then I can't let you in to see him. I have strict orders to that regard from Mr Holmes."

 

Greg nodded again, but remained completely unimpressed. "Miss Morstan... does he have someone in with him at the moment?"

 

"No, he doesn't, but..."

 

Greg didn't let her finish speaking. "Is he on the phone?"

 

"No, it's not that either, but he..." Once again, she didn't get any further.

 

"Fine. Then I'm going in," Greg declared firmly and put his hand on the door handle.

 

Miss Morstan stood up from behind her desk and reached out a hand toward him, apparently in a half-hearted attempt to stop him.

 

"Inspector Lestrade, I..."

 

"Not to worry," Greg said with a wink. "I'll tell him you tried everything you could to stop me." Then he opened the door to Mycroft's sanctum sanctorum and went in.

 

Mycroft sat at his desk, leafing through some papers or other. He looked up at the sound of the door.

 

"Mary, I said I didn't wish to be dist..." He fell silent when he saw that the intruder wasn't his secretary. "Inspector Lestrade."

 

"Mycroft," Greg returned the greeting with special emphasis.

 

Mycroft nodded imperceptibly. "Gregory." His eyes wandered to the plaster still decorating Greg's temple. "Your recovery is progressing, as I see."

 

"I needed stitches," Greg said with a concerted effort at maintaining control. "Three. I was in hospital until yesterday." He paused. "At St Bart's, to be precise. You may have heard of it."

 

Mycroft looked somewhat ashamed and directed his gaze to the side, attempting to make it look casual. His fingers straightened the papers on his desk.

 

"The name does sound famil..."

 

"BULLSHIT!" Greg interrupted the mayor crassly. "You were there! I read it in the paper the next day. You visited all the other police officers there who'd been hurt."

 

"I did shake a few hands, that's true... it was expected," Mycroft responded evasively.

 

Greg stared angrily out the window. "I was just one floor up. Was it too hard for you to climb the stairs?"

 

Greg waited, but Mycroft remained silent. Oddly, his reticence only served to make Greg angrier. He didn't even stop to ask himself why he was so angry.

 

"Well that's a great way to find out that you've overestimated your own importance. It's always nice to have your feet firmly on a factual foundation again," he said with gruff sarcasm, still staring at the Tower Bridge - which the office offered a fantastic view of. But the image only made it as far as Greg's retinas. His brain didn't process any of it.

 

"I hope my little omission won't have any effect on our working together," Mycroft's cultivated, controlled voice piped up.

 

Greg's eyes swept across Mycroft. The Inspector looked disappointed, his eyes knowing and at the same time empty.

 

"Of course not," Greg stated with a businesslike chill. "I'm a professional."

 

"And... your amnesia?" Mycroft asked, hesitating slightly as if he weren't sure the question was appropriate.

 

"No change," Greg replied with a combination of frustration, resignation, and irritation.

 

"If you do..."

 

"If I do remember," Greg abruptly cut across the mayor's words, "you'll be the first to know."

 

"Gregory..."

 

"Good day, Mr Holmes," Greg said and left.

 

Mycroft stared at the closed door for quite some time. Perhaps it would have been better to tell Greg that the only reason he hadn't visited him was because he didn't want to make him any more of a target than he already was. There was no telling what could have happened if it became known in certain circles that... Mycroft shook his head firmly. It simply _could not_ be allowed to come out that his heart always beat a little faster when Gregory Lestrade was nearby. It would only put Greg in unnecessary danger.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

One day later, John received a long, flat package by messenger. He was still sitting at breakfast with Sherlock, and when he read the return address, his eyebrows inched higher and higher up his forehead:

 

_Mycroft Holmes_

 

"Why the hell is your brother sending me a parcel?" he blurted out without thinking. Sherlock set down his teacup so hard that the tea slopped over - not just into the saucer, but onto the tablecloth.

 

"Do not open it, whatever you do," Sherlock answered forcefully.

 

"Why not?" John asked, cutting the string with his knife.

 

"It's sure to be a trap... or a bomb... or a venomous snake... or..." Sherlock ranted.

 

"Now I really am curious," John said with a wolfish grin and lifted the lid off the cardboard box. "Oh," he said softly. There was a violin case inside, and on it was a small white note covered in fastidious writing and signed _'M.H.'_

 

John skimmed the message under Sherlock's mistrustful gaze.

 

_'I've taken the liberty of addressing Sherlock's old violin to you, Mr Watson. In my view, this is the only way to ensure that Sherlock doesn't dispose of the parcel without opening it.'_

 

"Well?" Sherlock demanded impatiently. "Speak up! What is it?"

 

"It's not for me..." John said slowly. He wasn't quite sure what to make of Mycroft's manner of going about things. "It's for you."

 

"For me?" Sherlock repeated incredulously. "Mycroft's never given me anything. And he's not about to start now!"

 

John shrugged and lifted the box a bit so Sherlock could get a look at the violin case inside.

 

"It looks like your old fiddle."

 

Sherlock stood up, his expression stony, and left the room, hurrying down the stairs to the kitchen. His sudden appearance startled Mrs Turner and Eleanor, who were the only ones there.

 

"Cigarette!" he demanded curtly.

 

"I say..." Mrs Turner protested.

 

"Not you," Sherlock replied impatiently, turning to Eleanor. "You! You smoke! Give me a cigarette!"

 

Eleanor held out a pack to him, her hands shaking.

 

"Low-tar?" Sherlock snorted in disdain. "Oh God... fine... if I have to..." He took a cigarette out of the pack, slipped it between his lips, and then ordered: "Light!"

 

When Eleanor, cowed, handed him a lighter, he lit the cigarette and took a quick, deep drag on it.

 

The nicotine had an almost immediate calming effect on him, and he kept the smoke in his airways as long as he could before exhaling with a sigh of relief.

 

"Nasty things," he murmured softly, handing Eleanor back the lighter.

 

"Now get out!" Mrs Turner scolded him, miffed. "Smoking! In _MY_ kitchen! Out with you - now! Or I'll have to have a word with Mr Watson about your behaviour."

 

Sherlock stared at her, baffled, but hurriedly left her realm in order to continue smoking out in the garden. John would never forgive him for angering Mrs Turner.

 

That blasted Mycroft! It was clear that his thrice-cursed brother was somehow going to manage to rub Sherlock's nose in the fact that he was the eternal loser of the Holmes clan. Sherlock inhaled the smoke as deep as he could, even as his agitated steps slowed on the manicured lawn. Bit by bit, he calmed down. Bit by bit, the anger and pain faded away. Bit by bit, he was able to think clearly again. What was it that John had said? _It doesn't matter what your daft brother thinks?_ Recalling those words, savouring them, relishing their echo... that all calmed him down faster and more thoroughly than nicotine or alcohol ever could. Sherlock took one last puff and ground out the cigarette carefully on the lawn. He then tried, suffering a bit of a guilty conscience, to bury the butt with the tip of his shoe. He wasn't entirely successful.

 

When he returned to the house, he ran into John coming down the stairs.

 

"You've been smoking," John noted.

 

"Yes," Sherlock confessed with a guilty sigh. "Are you angry about it?"

 

John shook his head. "No. I'm angry because you didn't finish breakfast. Not because of your smoking. It's your body, your lungs. I'm still going to punish you for it though."

 

"Oh?" Sherlock asked eagerly. He secretly hoped that John would bend him over his knee again.

 

"Yes," John answered, grinning broadly. "I'm not going to kiss you for the next 24 hours."

 

"WHAT?!" Sherlock cried, horrified. "You can't do that!"

 

"You bet I can. I told you right from the beginning that I have absolutely no desire to be reminded of an ashtray when I stick my tongue down your throat," John said, as calm as anything, before continuing with smug satisfaction: "Based on your reaction, it seems this really will be a punishment for you."

 

Sherlock tried desperately to find a way out. "Wouldn't it be better if you used the riding crop... or if you must, the whip..."

 

"Anything else?" John returned lightly. "That would be more like a reward for you. No, my decision stands. No lip contact for the next 24 hours. Maybe you'll think twice next time whether the cigarette's _worth it_ to you."

 

Sherlock pouted sullenly. "You can bin the parcel from Mycroft, by the way. I don't want it."

 

"I'm not going to do that," John said cheerfully.

 

"Why not?"

 

"That's quite simple, Sherlock... it's _your_ parcel, _your_ fiddle..."

 

"Violin," Sherlock corrected him in an undertone.

 

John rolled his eyes. "All right, fine... your _violin_. There's no way in hell I'm taking out your rubbish for you. I put it in your old room. No matter what's going on between you and your brother..." John took a deep breath. "Sherlock... I'm not going to fight all your battles for you. You're going to have to take care of this parcel from your brother yourself. All right?"

 

An injured look came into Sherlock's eyes. "Yes, I've understood. I'm on my own."

 

John rolled his eyes a second time and put his hand on the back of Sherlock's neck. "You're not _alone_ , you idiot... If you need me..." His voice sank to a whisper. "… I'm here for you." Then he cleared his throat and went on in a normal tone: "And now come on... those letters to Italy aren't going to write themselves."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Right about at the same time as Sherlock followed John into the office, Jim Moriarty was asking himself why the mayor and the crimelord weren't tearing each other apart yet... and why Scotland Yard - under the aegis of that incompetent idiot Dimmock - was instead looking for him with dogged determination.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_**To be continued...** _

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Just a little information about the tumbler Mycroft uses:

 

<https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Old_Fashioned_glass>

<https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_glassware#Tumblers>

 

Rejoice! I finally found a biscuit that approximates what I imagine the 'dainty almond biscuits' to look like that Jacques serves with the coffee!!!

 

So, here they are - the unofficial 'Deflowered' biscuits:

 

 

("… a dainty almond biscuit...")

 

And here's the recipe:

 

German:

<http://www.franzoesischkochen.de/tuiles-aux-amandes-franzosische-mandeln-dachziegel/>

 

English:

<http://www.chefeddy.com/2009/10/almond-tuiles/>

<http://www.landolakes.com/recipe/2816/french-almond-wafers-tuiles>

 

themuller has baked a batch and made wonderful cover art for this story!

 

<http://themuller13.tumblr.com/post/90240168631/lorelei-lee-unberuhrt-deflowered-extended>

 

Image 1: How it is... (only one biscuit on one saucer)

Image 2: How it should be … (a biscuit on every saucer)

Teaser: (pics from Martin Freeman are taken from the movie "Wild Target")

 

[http://lorelei-lee.tumblr.com/post/128327402459/teaser-for-the-next-chapter-deflowered](https://webmail.xch.fraunhofer.de/owa/redir.aspx?SURL=a0dLkxd9vGkucah9zWSm1AA0v8S6yNmYwjPQmyVaYkDt1ir6bLXSCGgAdAB0AHAAOgAvAC8AbABvAHIAZQBsAGUAaQAtAGwAZQBlAC4AdAB1AG0AYgBsAHIALgBjAG8AbQAvAHAAbwBzAHQALwAxADIAOAAzADIANwA0ADAAMgA0ADUAOQAvAHQAZQBhAHMAZQByAC0AZgBvAHIALQB0AGgAZQAtAG4AZQB4AHQALQBjAGgAYQBwAHQAZQByAC0AZABlAGYAbABvAHcAZQByAGUAZAA.&URL=http%3A%2F%2Florelei-lee.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F128327402459%2Fteaser-for-the-next-chapter-deflowered)

 

 

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 


	33. Like the Air That We Breathe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation by the absolute magnificient SwissMiss

 

**Chapter 33 - Like the Air That We Breathe**

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Right after Sherlock received a not very flattering - albeit candid and therefore rather accurate - photo of Charlie White from Mike, he forwarded it to Jason's mobile.

 

Following the instructions Sherlock had given Jason, he sent it on to various individuals with a request for them to pass it on in turn. Each recipient owed the respective sender a favour of some kind, and thus it was guaranteed that the message would be taken seriously and not just passed on without looking at it. And so based on this chain mail with a particularly successful snowball effect, within just a few days, various prostitutes, rentboys, pimps, addicts, small-time dealers and homeless people knew who Charlie White was and what he'd looked like when he was still alive.

 

It wasn't long before Jason received the first responses, as everyone was highly motivated to tick off the favour they owed as soon as possible. Sherlock and Jason had agreed that Jason would give his number as the contact - that is, Sherlock had demanded it and Jason had knuckled under with a sigh and the remark, _'But this really means we're even now'_. This measure of having Jason as the contact person was necessary, as Sherlock didn't want John to become suspicious due to any sudden intense activity on his phone, which might lead him to ask awkward questions.

 

Unfortunately, none of the responses that had come in up to now contained any interesting information. But at least it was now possible to paint a more accurate picture of where the deceased had spent his time. Jason now knew (and kept Sherlock apprised through nightly texts) where Charlie had lived and done his shopping, which pub he'd drunk his beer at, and from whom he'd bought the occasional joint. They now knew his territory, and that knowledge made it possible to narrow down the search and target specific individuals to include in the search to send his picture to.

 

It was only a matter of time before someone remembered seeing Charlie with someone - or seeing someone go into the building where Charlie's flat was - in short, seeing someone who appeared suspicious in some way or was well enough known in the milieu to stick out.

 

It was really just a matter of time - and yet Sherlock went through several anxious moments wondering whether he still had that time. Luckily, there weren't any further incidents - but even that didn't make Sherlock rest any easier; quite the opposite, in fact, it gave him a dark sense of foreboding.

 

During those few days, Mike occasionally gave him a questioning look, but Sherlock could only answer with a barely noticeable shrug of his shoulders - he had no other choice. There were really no developments of note. Sherlock was prepared for Mike to bring up the question directly at some point, but John was always around and therefore a private conversation was never possible.

 

Then, when John finally left them alone in the office three days after that nighttime phone call, Mike was less interested in Charlie White than in the conversation between Sherlock and his wife Susan.

 

"What the hell did you say to my wife anyway?" Mike blurted out his question.

 

Sherlock returned Mike's frown, slightly confused.

 

"Nothing special... Why?"

 

"Nothing special?" Mike repeated, aghast. "I can play myself for a sucker well enough without your help. My Susan was giggling like a schoolgirl! My Susan NEVER giggles like a schoolgirl. You must have done something to her."

 

"Oh," Sherlock said as if he understood, even though it was apparent that he'd neither understood Mike's question nor his indignation. "I was merely being polite. Shouldn't I have been?"

 

Mike's eyes got round, only to narrow a moment later. "Being polite? Excuse me if I don't buy that. I know my wife! In order to give her that reaction, you'd need to do a bit more than invoke the usual level of courtesy."

 

Sherlock spread his arms. "I didn't want to get on her bad side... after all, I did call rather late - or early, depending on how..." He broke off at Mike's impatient snort. "I was simply nice to her... I can be quite convincing and rather charming... when I want to be," he admitted, unconcerned. "I might have overdone it slightly. I'm a bit out of practise."

 

Mike stared at him, his mouth hanging open. "A bit out of practise? How can a poofter like you... I mean, do you play for both teams or what?"

 

Sherlock sighed with a hint of annoyance. "No, I'm not bi. Women don't interest me at all."

 

"Yeah, but... with John, aren't you... I mean... don't you try to... exercise that charm on him? Not that it's any of my business..."

 

"Precisely, Mike," Sherlock interrupted him mildly. "It's none of your business. But as you're not going to shut up about it otherwise... I've never used any of my _special charms_ on John. He'd see through them right away for what they are - a mask. And even if he didn't, it would be abhorrent to me to lie to him," Sherlock remarked matter-of-factly. "And now will that be all?"

 

Mike shook his head but gave a positive answer to Sherlock's impatient question, and they got back to their work.

 

Neither of the two men really had their mind on what they were doing, though. Mike still couldn't believe that Sherlock had got his Susan to flirt with him - and Sherlock... Sherlock was still struggling with thoughts of Mycroft's package, which had been lying open in his old room for the past two days.

 

He didn't spend his nights there anymore, but all of his clothing was still stored in the green room. Whenever he got dressed or changed his clothes, his eye was drawn to the open box as if by magic. It was pure torture for him every time, with every glance, to be forcibly reminded of his ruined dreams and the accessory humiliations.

 

It shouldn't be a problem for him to pick up that box with its contents, take it downstairs, and toss it in the bin. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. That violin had meant too much to him... he'd placed too many hopes in it... there were too many memories wrapped up in it... but too much pain as well.

 

Mycroft had given him the most perfidious present possible. His accursed brother must have known he wouldn't be able to put an end to his suffering; that he would, instead, prolong his own agony day after day with an all but masochistic pleasure.

 

He didn't blame John. He understood what John was trying to do with his refusal to help. Sherlock was supposed to prove himself. Show his own strength. Stand up to his brother on his own. He did feel a little bit abandoned, as John couldn't know - couldn't even suspect - what this _gift_ had set loose in him... what it meant to him...

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_Every year at Christmas, the entire Holmes clan gathered around the Christmas tree at the home of Sherrinford and Sylvia Holmes. The ritual hadn't been disturbed by Sherrinford's death four years ago. It was always the same... the arrival of the guests (some even wormed their way in for several days), the cocktail reception, the dinner with goose and Christmas pudding, followed by sherry for the ladies and whisky for the gentlemen. Then came the obligatory musical performance, which fell under Sherlock and Mycroft's jurisdiction and during which the guests could digest their copious - and free - meal._

 

_In the beginning, it had been Mycroft alone who delighted the guests with his violin. Later, when Sherlock began lessons on the same instrument - on Mrs Hudson's urging - they took turns displaying their talents separately. Soon, however, they were able to play two-part pieces as duets, and Mama Sylvia reaped praise for both of her gifted sons._

 

_Sherlock was certainly gifted musically, but his talent alone couldn't account for the rapid progress he made - and was still making. The real reason was that he had a goal that he'd set his mind to, and he was doing everything in his power to achieve it as fast as possible. His motivation was to become good enough, fast enough, to take lessons - and practise - together with his brother. He wanted more than anything to spend more time with Mycroft, and he hoped that Mycroft would then … maybe … like him a little more. Maybe... if he saw that Sherlock was no longer just an annoying little boy, but was able to master a difficult instrument just as well as Mycroft had... maybe... then he'd be a little friendlier to him and not just spend time with him during lessons and not ignore him the way he usually did otherwise... maybe he'd show a bit more interest in him and not just act like an indulgent sibling when other people were around._

 

_That was Sherlock's stated goal and his most ardent desire, and so he practised as if he were possessed. After just two years, their music teacher actually did suggest signing the two brothers up for lessons together in addition to individual instruction. From then on, they played together for the family at Christmas. At first it was just simple songs, but it wasn't long before the pieces became more complex and ambitious._

 

_However, Sherlock's secret wish that Mycroft would give up his indifference toward him was never fulfilled. They did speak a bit more with each other, but the conversations revolved solely around the pieces they practised and performed. Mycroft never initiated another topic, and if Sherlock ever dared to speak on another subject, he was answered with silence and a faintly bored look._

 

_The first Christmas without their father was the hardest._

 

_Sherlock's eyes kept seeking out his father's tall figure of their own accord. He always remembered just a moment too late, and when he did, realising he would never again see the proud glow on his father's face, his bow scraped across the strings and he produced several out-of-tune notes before he got a grip on himself again under Mycroft's stern gaze. Tears prickled in his eyes, but he swallowed them bravely down. Mycroft's admonition from the funeral still echoed clearly in his ears: 'A Holmes doesn't cry.'_

 

_As he continued to play - flawlessly now - he sought out Mama Sylvia's face in order to check whether she was angry at him for messing up... but her expression was as calm and placid as ever. She had never been angry at him... never scolded him... she paid for all the costs he incurred without batting an eye - and graced him with the same polite indifference she showed her own son. But at that moment, Sherlock understood that her mild affability would never be able to replace his father's pride._

 

_One year later, Mycroft quit the violin. When he explained his decision, he said he had to dedicate himself to his career and couldn't waste any more time on music. Mama Sylvia had accepted that the same way she accepted everything - with stoic equanimity and an 'It's your decision, Mycroft.'_

 

_From that point forward, it fell to Sherlock alone to entertain their guests with his musical contributions - and he did. Even though the music meant nothing to him, had never really meant anything to him. His sole impetus and his sole interest had only ever been to spend more time with his brother, but now that that incentive was no longer present, music lost all meaning to him._

 

_The violin itself still exercised a certain fascination over him, as it was truly a challenge to elicit such a range of tones out of the four strings. But beyond that? The only thing that appealed to Sherlock was the mathematical precision of the notes and the exactitude of the notation. There was no 'maybe' or 'perhaps one could'... no. A quarter note was a quarter note and a C was a C. Full stop. There were no wishy-washy interpretations and no reading of tea leaves. Music was an exact science for Sherlock._

 

_His music teacher was still enthusiastic about him, and wanted to recommend him to a music academy or conservatory, but Sherlock rejected every suggestion. His heart wasn't in it (music or anything else) - and Mama Sylvia acquiesced to that as well. As long as Sherlock was willing to play agreeable songs at Christmas and thus cement the wholesome family image, she was satisfied._

 

_Now the annual Christmas ritual at the Holmes house was nearing its conclusion. It was the fourth Christmas without his father. Sherlock ostentatiously shook out a pristine white handkerchief with lace trimming, set it on his shoulder to protect his new, plum-coloured suit (and because it looked dapper) and settled the violin with an overly dramatic motion._

 

_His suit was cut so close that he had a bit of difficulty drawing the bow with enough precision, but the envious look Mycroft sent him (and his suit) more than made up for the inconvenience._

 

_He played for nearly half an hour, easily switching between popular Christmas songs and complex classical pieces and finally closing with 'Auld Lang Syne' - perhaps not exactly appropriate, as it was only Christmas and not yet New Year's Eve. When the final note faded lightly away, Sherlock looked around with satisfaction. The ladies were dabbing at the corners of their moist eyes, and the men were staring down into their whisky glasses in order to hide how impressed or moved they were._

 

_'A resounding success,' Sherlock thought, elated, until the first guests began to give voice to their reactions._

 

_"Really wonderful, Sherlock... truly..."_

 

_"Of course it doesn't approach Mycroft, but still... very talented. Sylvia, the boy is really very talented... you can be proud of both of them..."_

 

_"Nicely done, Sherlock... it's just a shame Mycroft stopped playing..."_

 

_"Indeed, a shame... a crying shame... Think how brilliant he would be now if he'd continued..."_

 

_"We'll never know, I suppose... but well done, Sherlock..."_

 

_"Mycroft could have been a virtuoso on the violin. A virtuoso. He was always so gifted. Not that Sherlock isn’t quite good too..."_

 

_"Yes, but unfortunately there's no comparison to Mycroft here... Don't take it the wrong way, Sherlock. Not everyone can be a goddamned virtuoso, right?"_

 

_Mycroft's triumphant, self-satisfied smirk put an immediate end to Sherlock's violin playing._

 

_After that evening he only touched the instrument when there was no way around it, and left it behind completely when he packed his bags to attend his first university._

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Sherlock stood in front of the open door of the green room, undecided. He'd half convinced himself he'd rather spend the entire day in his pyjamas and dressing gown than to go into the room to change, and have to endure the sight of Mycroft's package.

 

It wouldn't be a problem to walk around in his pyjamas all day... Mike had already picked John up, and the two of them were going to spend the whole day out of the house... visiting business partners or blackmailing people or something boring like that.

 

Annoyed at himself, Sherlock shook his head and stepped over the threshold, frowning, in order to get dressed. He would simply ignore the package … _'since that's worked so well so far,_ ' he thought to himself, not without a certain amount of irony. It was probably an act of defiance - or a way to prove something to himself - that caused him to spend an inordinately long time choosing his clothes today. A dark grey suit... with a light blue... no... a white shirt... socks, underwear... He took his time getting dressed quite deliberately, straightened everything carefully in front of the mirror, gave the box one last glance, waited until the stabbing sensation inside him receded, and then walked out of the room without looking back.

 

He took only a few steps before stopping in the middle of the corridor.

 

He closed his eyes and sighed. A decisive cast appeared around his lips, which he pressed firmly together.

 

No, things couldn't continue like this!

 

Hadn't he promised himself he was going to take control of his own life and not just stand around waiting for life to be something that _happened_ _to_ him? He was tired of knuckling under to Mycroft. He was tired of letting himself be tortured by these memories... memories that interfered with enjoying his life with John.

 

This had to end. Once and for all!

 

He pivoted on his heel and went back into his old room before he could have second thoughts.

 

Before he knew it, he was standing in front of the table with the open box. There it was. Silent... almost innocent... his old violin case. Sherlock could virtually hear the metronome and smell the rosin he'd applied to his bow.

 

One more time... he'd just play one last note... then he'd hack the accursed instrument to pieces right here and now and mail the splinters back to Mycroft. With his regards.

 

His hands trembled as he lifted the case out of the box - a reaction that filled him with disgust. A thick folder was revealed underneath it. Sherlock recognised it at once and frowned. Why had Mycroft sent him all their sheet music? And a music stand too? He set the case down carefully on the table. Then he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and flipped open the clasps. He stared down at the dark case for a long time, unable to stand the sight of his shaking hands as he raised the lid. His lips were dry. He tried to moisten them with his tongue, but in vain. Why had he been so eager to wake sleeping dogs once more? What had he wanted to prove to himself? Wouldn't it be better to pack everything up again and throw it away than to face his fears? Why didn't he simply stick his head in the sand and wait until his internal demons left him in peace and...

 

No!

 

It wasn't better.

 

With a sudden surge of determination, Sherlock lifted the lid - and blinked.

 

There, lying on his gently glowing violin - which appeared to be in excellent condition - was a folded piece of paper. Curious, he reached for it and opened it. His brow wrinkled once again when he recognised Mycroft's handwriting. He briefly considered sparing himself the - doubtless scornful - outpouring, but in the end his curiosity won the upper hand and he started to read.

 

_The violin and bow are both ready to play - I had them restored and tuned, entirely at my cost. Based on what one hears, Doc Watson doesn't seem to be entirely without a musical ear and shouldn't object to a little music around the house. You were always the better violinist of the two of us. I finally quit because you would have surpassed me within the next two years. I had reached the zenith of my abilities - our teacher didn't want to admit it, but it was utterly clear to me. You, on the other hand... I only realised the full extent of your talent when you started to improvise that one time - to the great dismay of our teacher - because you hadn't committed one part of the piece to memory yet. I remember him scolding you for it rather than acknowledging your unusual gift, which had revealed itself at that moment - at least to me... He had a small mind - as do so many others._

_M.H._

 

Sherlock stared at the note, dumbfounded, until it slipped from between his numb fingers and fluttered gently to the floor.

 

How was it possible that his world - his entire life thus far - had been so completely turned on its head by those few lines?

 

He slapped a hand over his mouth, not knowing whether it was a laugh, a sob, or a scream cutting off his breath. Then he fell to his knees and an indefinable sound escaped his constricted throat.

 

So many questions and thoughts shot through his mind at the same time...

 

Why now?

 

_Why at all?_

 

_Did he hate me that much?_

 

_Does he still hate me?_

 

_Why didn't he say anything back then?_

 

_Not a word!_

 

_For years!_

 

But then one thought came to the forefront, silencing all the other half-formed words:

 

_I'm better than Mycroft, and he admitted it himself._

 

It was a revolutionary idea, and one that needed some time to stew. Sherlock crouched there on his knees for what seemed like forever on the floor of the green room, staring into space with his mouth hanging open. After a while, he dared to formulate three words in his head. Three simple words that struck him with just a little awe:

 

_I am better._

 

He snapped his mouth shut and looked around, almost anxiously, to see whether anyone or anything was there that might take that belief in himself away again. But no matter how much he looked and sensed and marvelled - there was nothing. Nothing and no one. The words became more firmly embedded in his mind and in his soul. Implanted themselves, multiplied, underwent a change and propagated, and suddenly there were four:

 

_I'm not a failure._

 

The words whispered, ran, flowed through his body and vibrated in unison with his heartbeat, and out of those four words arose five:

 

_I was never a failure._

 

The years of self-doubt didn't fall away from him instantly like the proverbial scales from his eyes. But Sherlock could feel quite distinctly that something had been set in motion inside him... that his vision had become more clear... that his perspective had shifted just a fraction... and sometimes it was precisely those small things that made such a big difference. Sherlock was filled with the certainty that this first step, as tiny as it might be, was of enormous importance. Without that first step there could be no further ones; there could be no journey.

 

When Sherlock arose from the floor and picked up his violin from its red satin cradle, he felt an assurance come over him that he'd never known before, and smiled.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Fortunately, John's house had a reasonably large hall on the ground floor where he occasionally held parties, and whose acoustics Sherlock deemed adequate. He'd raced through the house as if possessed, looking for a halfway acceptable space, and now he set up his music stand in the room, set the folder with the sheet music on it, and then turned to the large dining table where he'd put his violin and bow. He set the violin to his shoulder with a practised motion, lowered his chin, and closed his eyes for a moment. The feel of the painstakingly worked wood against his skin... the barely perceptible scent of the varnish... it all sent him back several years, and he felt a quiet peace inside that he'd never felt back then. He firmed up his posture, exhaled, and drew the bow down to play the first note.

 

It didn't sound good.

 

But Sherlock just smiled. That was only to be expected and didn't unsettle him one bit. He adjusted the tuning of the violin and started again.

 

The first half hour was painful, and the sounds he squeezed out of the instrument were far from what he used to be capable of, but then it started to get better... his fingers, his hands, his arms remembered... his body and his muscles automatically did what they had once learned, and then... then it was wonderful.

 

He started playing through all his old music... one piece after another, as if in a trance. Endorphins rushed through his veins... he barely felt the pain in his shoulder, his wrists, the tips of his fingers. His body slowly lost any meaning, dissolved in light and colour and sound and harmony. He became virtually intoxicated on the effervescent tones he conjured forth, and didn't put the violin down until the vivid blue of the midday sky faded into a gentler, more muted afternoon cast.

 

He stood there, breathing hard - overwhelmed by the events and insights of the day. He laid his instrument carefully back on the table before going over and opening the large floor-to-ceiling windows. He ran out across the tiled terrace and let himself collapse onto the meticulously manicured lawn.

 

Then he just lay there. Felt the fresh grass under his hands, the wind in his hair and the sun on his skin and had the feeling he was experiencing it all for the first time. Still drunk with the euphoria of it all, he blinked up at the blue sky, up to the white clouds drifting above him, and felt like he belonged for the first time in his life... felt at one with the universe... at one with himself.

 

An errant bee - presumably attracted by his aftershave - buzzed around him until it realised its error and flew onward. His respiration and heart rate slowly settled down... returned to their normal rhythm. Sherlock continued to lie there on his back for quite some time, watching the procession of the clouds over him. When a blackbird started to sing, he got up and went back into the house. Mrs Turner was just setting a tray on the table where his violin lay when he stepped through the big glass window,

 

"For you," she said with a broad smile. "I thought you must be hungry after playing so long..."

 

Sherlock stopped where he was, baffled. He'd never experienced hunger in John's house - he'd always been given everything he could ever ask for, but never - not once - had anything _simply_ been brought... as if _anticipating_ his needs.

 

Mrs Turner didn't seem to be put off by his silence, as her smile didn't falter a bit.

 

"You should eat the soup as long as it's hot. It's tomato - one of your favourites."

 

On the tray stood not only a big cup of soup, which was steaming in a promising manner, but also a basket of baguettes and butter, a bottle of water, and a large slice of quiche. On the side was a small vase with a bouquet of daisies. Sherlock thought he must be seeing things. Mrs Turner had gone to all this trouble... for _him_?

 

"You can also eat the quiche cold... I put in ham and mushrooms. Just the way you like it." Her smile now took on a decidedly motherly air, and Sherlock had no idea how he was supposed to react to that. How did she even know what his favourite foods were? John must be more attentive than he'd thought and gone gossiping. Or did she know based on the amount of food that was sent back to the kitchen when the table was cleared?

 

"I'll leave you alone now," Mrs Turner chattered on. "I'll come back to get the tray later - don't let me get in your way... You can go on playing... and … if it's not too much bother... could you maybe play _'Ave Maria'_?"

 

"The Schubert?" Sherlock asked automatically. He was too shocked to say anything else.

 

"Is there any other?" Mrs Turner returned with a sly smile.

 

Sherlock shrugged somewhat helplessly and nodded.

 

Mrs Turner seemed satisfied by the answer and left him alone again... with the same big smile on her face. It wasn't until now that Sherlock realised he really was quite hungry. He sat down on one of the chairs and pulled the tray closer. He inspected the daisies with a slight sense of embarrassment as he ate. No one had ever given him flowers before... this was all rather confusing. He could deal with animosity... but this sudden flurry of friendliness... He had no idea how to react to it.

 

Once his hunger and thirst were sated, he thumbed through his music looking for _'Ave Maria'_ and, once he found it, spread it out on his music stand and started to play. The measured melody of the piece had an almost hypnotic effect on him, filling him with both confidence and longing. With the final note echoing tremulously in the air, Sherlock readied another piece. He used to have to play it often, as even the least musically inclined recognised it when they heard it. It wasn't exactly easy to play, although it sounded so simple - " _Like ABBA_ ," a cousin had once said to him when he'd tried to explain the complexity of the piece to her. Sherlock had always been especially proud of his exacting and technically flawless technique, such that Bach's _'Air'_ \- the piece that now stood on his music stand - did pose a neat little challenge for him, but it was a challenge he'd always excelled at mastering.

 

His bow elicited the first few, feather-light notes, more air than sound... more mist than substance... more notion than certainty... and Sherlock played them as perfectly as ever. But then something odd happened. For the first time, he felt something... the music changed... lost some of its technical brilliance and in return gained depth and warmth and pulled him along with it... ensnared him in its spell. For the first time, the music touched his heart and his heart touched the music. The movements of his body, his hands, his fingers, only changed minutely, but all of a sudden it was as if Sherlock had entered an entirely different world. A world in which his emotions were permitted, where he could express them, and...

 

He closed his eyes, utterly overcome... he left off from the notes written on the page... yet still carried through on their intention... changed the melody, varied it... let his heart speak through the music and realised at some point that all of his thoughts and feelings had been filled with John from the first note on. Sherlock continued to play... returned to Bach's composition... collected himself and let his heart run free... played notes and sounds that had never been written down, ones that came directly from him... exclusively from him... from his innermost self... from his singular soul.

 

He started to play the piece from the beginning again - without a pause, only a hitch betraying where he took a breath.

 

The almost ethereal tones resonated around the room, detached from string and bow. Yearning and lightheartedness were concealed within them, along with an undefinable sense of recognition. As soft as a thought, the harmonies floated through the air, unrestricted by measures or bars. Sherlock's modifications flowed naturally into the breath of the music. The notes melded together seamlessly, springing from Bach's genius and Sherlock's heart and soul to create a unique declaration of love for John. The tones rose higher and higher, purer and purer, jumped for joy with a lightness they'd never known before, fanned out and found each other again, before they finally joined together in one last, tremulous, almost surreally sweet sound.

 

Exhausted and strangely empty, yet filled with a peculiar calm, Sherlock lowered the bow and looked out through the open windows... out at the green grass and the clear blue sky, and everything in him sang: _John... John... John..._

 

"That was... sublime..." a quiet voice sounded behind him, and when he turned around in surprise, there was John. John, sitting on the floor in the open doorway with his legs crossed, a look on his face that could only be described as _deeply_ _moved_.

 

"John..." Sherlock said, startled at how soft his own voice sounded. "John." He left his violin on the table, not paying it much heed this time, and went to John, who stood up and awaited him with a smile.

 

Their lips met with an intensity that took them both by surprise.

 

Their bodies pressed together, tried to melt into each other. John's arms wrapped around Sherlock and held him in an embrace that was practically bone-crushing, while Sherlock framed John's face in his hands... as delicate and gentle as if it were a fragile treasure. Their tongues played together - hungry and tender at the same time - until they finally let go, breathing heavily.

 

"What was that just now?" John asked, his voice raw and still tainted by a hint of that emotion which had been so clearly displayed on his face just moments ago.

 

"Bach," Sherlock said. The storm of emotions raging inside him robbed him completely of his usual eloquence.

 

John grinned.

 

"That wasn't just _'Air'_... I prefer opera, but I'm no one-trick pony. What was it?"

 

"I..." Sherlock's heart was so full that it strangled his vocal cords. Words that were foreign to him crowded onto his tongue, but he couldn't bring himself to speak them aloud. They felt too unfamiliar... he was too inexperienced in these things... "I was just... playing around," he answered with a deprecatory grimace.

 

John appeared to consider that for a moment.

 

"Can you play it again? Not now," he added. "But sometime."

 

"I... no... I don't think so," Sherlock stammered. Why did he feel so self-conscious all of a sudden? "It was... rather spontaneous. I don't know if I remember it all." That was the pure, unadulterated truth. Sherlock didn't know if he'd be able to reveal his heart again so completely, especially if he knew that John was listening.

 

"Too bad," John said in a low voice, gazing at him intently. "By the way, I don't appear to be your only admirer."

 

Sherlock's eyebrows drew down in question.

 

"Why..."

 

"Well, this..." John said. He indicated the dining table with his chin.

 

The tray with the dirty dishes had disappeared, to be replaced by a small dish of red strawberries and a small pitcher with cream, all balanced on top of a bowl filled with ice cubes.

 

"Oh, that must have been Mrs Turner," Sherlock said. "I didn't even notice..."

 

"Mrs Turner?" John asked, amused. "I see... in that case... I thought I was going to have to get jealous." He let go of Sherlock and went over to the table, took one of the strawberries - the stems and leaves already having been removed - and popped it into his mouth. "Mmmhhh..." he said, his voice full of pleasure, and licked his fingers in a completely superfluous gesture.

 

Sherlock swallowed hard.

 

"Have you eaten anything at all since breakfast?" John asked with a hint of sternness.

 

"Yes, Mrs Turner brought me something," Sherlock rushed to assure him.

 

John nodded. "That's good, but there's always room for dessert... isn't there?" John lowered the flies of his trousers with a salacious grin.

 

The sound alone made Sherlock's knees turn to jelly. He swallowed again.

 

"Yes, I believe I still have room," he whispered hoarsely, taking a step closer to John.

 

"Ah-ah... not so fast." John held out his arm to keep Sherlock at a distance. He had to laugh at Sherlock's disappointed expression. "No reason to cry," he teased. "You're still going to get your... _spilt milk_..."

 

Sherlock watched wide-eyed as John sat down on one of the chairs with his trousers open, took out his half-hard penis, and reached for the small pitcher.

 

"You're going to ruin your suit," Sherlock heard himself saying and could have slapped himself for it. Who cared about the suit when John was about to...

 

"Fuck the suit," John gave voice to Sherlock's thoughts and poured some of the cream over his genitals. " _Aaahhh_ ," he swore in an undertone right afterward. "Cold."

 

"I could have told you that," Sherlock said with a patronising grin. "The cream was on ice... and ice does tend to be cold."

 

"Smart arse..." John grumbled, but he was grinning too. "Do you have any ideas how we might get it up again?"

 

"Oh... I'm sure I can think of something..." Sherlock whispered, licked his lips, and sank down onto his knees between John's splayed legs.

 

The warmth of Sherlock's mouth, the agility of his tongue, and not least the fire in his eyes all contributed to John's recovery from the shock of the cold, and the gentle yet persistent sucking and licking around his now stiff shaft not only elicited a gratified sigh, but prompted his hips to plunge deeper and deeper into Sherlock's throat in a quest for _more_.

 

When Sherlock's mouth released his erection, leaving just his tongue dancing around the head, John sent him a questioning look, which was promptly returned. At the same time, John saw Sherlock rubbing the bulge in his own trousers with his free hand. John licked his lips and answered Sherlock's unspoken question with a silent nod.

 

Scant seconds later, Sherlock's flies were open as well and his fingers were rubbing his hard penis rather than the soft material of his trousers. Sherlock tilted his head back and a long, drawn-out sigh escaped his lips.

 

The sight of Sherlock shamelessly giving in to his own lust was too heady for John to end it with a command. Rather than giving Sherlock a new order, he simply enjoyed the scene as it played out.

 

Sherlock's long fingers moved slowly over his steadily swelling member. He really was an expert in prolonging his pleasure, delaying his ecstasy and torturing himself with it. Every time when his fingers reached the head in the course of their path, Sherlock passed his thumb over the tip. It wasn't a gentle stroking, but more an almost rough touch, and every time it happened, Sherlock's entire body trembled, fluid welled up out of the narrow slit of his hard cock, and he gasped, his breath rattling.

 

John was still struggling with himself over whether he should put a stop to the sensual game or let it continue when Sherlock opened his eyes and looked straight at him. There was a fire in his eyes that took John's breath away. How could the flame in those pale eyes burn so brightly and yet be so gentle?

 

John didn't know. He only knew that he'd never wanted so badly to get burned.

 

A dark, shameless smile hovered at the corners of Sherlock's mouth, and John bit down on his lips in expectation. His own erection still jutted proudly out from his body, even though he hadn't done anything more - the visual stimulation was more than sufficient.

 

"Should we give that cream another go?" Sherlock whispered in his deep, velvety soft baritone, and turned his upper body until he could reach the pitcher on the table. Rather than waiting for an answer, he drank a small sip of cream right from the pot. Then he turned back to John and very slowly raised one eyebrow.

 

John ran his tongue across his lower lip. He hadn't missed the fact that Sherlock hadn't swallowed the cream and was keeping his lips pressed firmly together.

 

"What are you up to?" he asked, his voice raw.

 

Sherlock's eyes twinkled with amusement, but his mouth remained shut. He lowered his head at a deliberately measured pace over John's lap and pressed his lips against the head of John's penis. John unconsciously held his breath.

 

Bit by bit, the lips parted, and Sherlock let his mouth slide over John's erection again. The cool cream in Sherlock's mouth came into contact with John's hot flesh, and he gasped for air. Sherlock's greedy lips slid down further, only to pull back a bit again.

 

He lifted his eyes as best he could to look at John. Then his mouth opened just a bit more, and the cream ran down John's penis in tiny rivulets.

 

The interplay of hot and cold, of shock and pleasure, caused John to cry out softly. The sight before him did the rest, releasing several erotic associations in John's brain. His hips jerked and Sherlock took in John's erection deeply, until John felt the tight, willing throat around the head of his penis. Then Sherlock swallowed, and John panted with bliss. He tossed his head back against the hard edge of the chair back and bit down on his lips. _Don't come... whatever you do, don't come..._

 

Sherlock was holding still, but now he swallowed again. The muscle contractions of the narrow passage around John's erection were almost too much for him. He gripped both hands around either side of the chair seat, digging his fingernails into the wood. _Don't come... don't come... best not even think about coming..._

 

Sherlock swallowed for a third time before releasing John, who moaned from between his clenched teeth and didn't know whether Sherlock stopping was a good thing, or whether he should spank him so hard for it that he wouldn't be able to sit for three days.

 

Sherlock lifted his head and once again gave John a look with half-lidded eyes that went right to his core. There was still some cream pooled in the corner of his mouth, but Sherlock didn't make any move to lick it away. It had an extraordinarily indecent effect.

 

"I thought a little distraction couldn't hurt... not that this is over before you've fucked me."

 

"Fuck..." John hissed from between his teeth, which were still clamped firmly together. What in the world had got into Sherlock today? No matter what it was - it was bloody hot!

 

"Fuuuuck," Sherlock echoed, drawing the word out. "Yes, that was the general idea," he explained casually before getting up and taking off his clothes so that he stood naked in front of John. Then he took a strawberry out of the bowl and sat down straddling John's lap. He held the fruit carefully between his teeth and tilted his head toward John, who met him halfway and kissed him with everything he had. The sweetness of the strawberry combined with the ferocity of their kiss, reinforcing the flavour of their lust.

 

"All right," John growled between two hungry kisses. "Is it going to work like this? Because I really don't know if I'm in any state to get the lube."

 

"You mean you don't have a cache of lubricant here?" Sherlock asked in a vain attempt to sound arrogant. "Rather neglectful... but a little spit will be sufficient," he murmured in John's ear. "And if it hurts a bit... even better..."

 

John had to make a concerted effort not to completely lose control upon hearing those words. A shiver ran down his back, and his erection - trapped between his stomach and Sherlock's testicles - twitched in a demanding way. Sherlock was truly a gift from the gods. He inhaled deeply through his nose and pulled Sherlock away from him by the hair.

 

"Then get off and make it nice and wet..."

 

Sherlock moaned wantonly and rushed to kneel on the floor again and take John's cock into his mouth. He worked carefully, and John was secretly grateful to him for it. He couldn't have withstood any more stimulation. His desire and arousal ran through his body in surging waves. Greater and greater... higher and higher... building up... and now John was right on the edge, about to break apart on the cliffs of ecstasy. And when he did that, he wanted to be one with Sherlock... really, truly one with that warm, willing body...

 

Spit dribbled down from Sherlock's lips - still stained red with strawberry juice - when he finished his preparations and positioned himself over John's lap with his legs spread. Then he bent his knees and lowered himself onto John.

 

Both men groaned when John's erection pressed against Sherlock's hole. For a moment it seemed impossible, but then Sherlock's muscles suddenly gave way and he took John's full length into him.

 

John had to bite his tongue in order not to cry out. So tight - so hot... Sherlock didn't exercise such self-control. His shout rang through the whole room before fading to a blissful moan.

 

"Fuck me," he growled breathlessly, and John put his hands on Sherlock's hips and pumped as hard as he could.

 

It was slightly difficult to thrust very deep or hard from the chair, but once Sherlock's feet found purchase on the cross bars of the chair legs such that he could hold himself up, it was better for both men. Still, it wasn't the quick, wild union it had looked like it was going to be at the beginning.

 

Their desire was both painful and urgent, but the limits of their position ensured that the sweet, inevitable end was still some way off, so that they could enjoy their arousal that much longer.

 

Neither of them even thought of the fact that Sherlock could simply lie back on the table in order to make things a bit easier... both men were too taken with each other.

 

At some point, Sherlock unbuttoned John's shirt and pushed it off his shoulders.

 

"You're wearing too much," he complained in a breathy whisper. "You always wear too much..." His fingers slid across the scar on John's shoulder, stroking it until John sighed and moaned at the same time. Then Sherlock squashed one of the strawberries - which he'd groped for blindly - on the ruined skin. John sucked in a sharp breath between his teeth and held completely still as Sherlock bent his upper body to lick the fruit pulp from his shoulder. Both of them could feel the strong pulsing of John's hard cock in Sherlock's tight, willing body, and both men shuddered heavily.

 

"Sherlock... I … can't hold on much longer... how soon...?" John panted, and a fresh wave of arousal rolled through his groin.

 

"Soon..." Sherlock groaned, reached for another strawberry, and smashed it against his own chest. John's mouth sank onto it almost immediately, sucking hard on Sherlock's nipple until he felt Sherlock's muscles contracting around him. " _Aaaahhh... John_... John... John... don't... suck..." Speaking was difficult. " _Bite it_... You have to _bite_ it!"

 

John's teeth promptly clamped mercilessly into the sensitive skin, and Sherlock arched toward him wantonly. John's fingers dug into Sherlock's arse, and he was only vaguely aware of Sherlock rubbing his own slippery erection somewhat awkwardly with his left hand, even as he held fast to John's scarred shoulder with his right.

 

It wasn't just their bodies that melded with each other, as if cut loose from the world. The level of their arousal rose higher and higher, and their desire for each other grew deeper and deeper... a sensation of floating came over Sherlock, and his heart was filled with a lightness he'd never known before. He broke apart, found himself again in John, held onto him, and opened himself to him with one last trembling sigh.

 

It was too much for John... the taste of Sherlock's skin on his tongue, the tight, continuously twitching muscles surrounding his throbbing cock... the sweet aroma of the crushed strawberries... the scent of sin... He let go of Sherlock's nipple, buried his face in the curve of Sherlock's neck, and pushed in as deep and hard as he could... he wavered a moment... then Sherlock cried out his name roughly... Sherlock's semen spurted onto his stomach... the wave of his arousal broke over him and he spent himself inside Sherlock's trembling body.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

"You're heavy..."

 

"Says the man who's always complaining I don't eat enough," Sherlock mumbled sleepily into John's neck.

 

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to thank your brother..." John mused, running his fingers through Sherlock's dark curls.

 

"Don't you dare..."

 

"If he hadn't sent your fiddle..."

 

"Violin!"

 

John rolled his eyes. "If he hadn't sent your violin, then... why did he send it anyway?"

 

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. "No idea... There was a note inside... he said something about you and music around the house... probably just wanted to get on your good side." Sherlock kept the remaining contents of the note to himself. He didn't want John to know how pitiful he used to be.

 

"Possibly," John admitted, wrapping his arms around Sherlock a bit more snugly. Sherlock sighed with contentment.

 

"Your suit is ruined," Sherlock noted. It didn't sound as if he particularly regretted it. "And the crossbar on this chair is broken..."

 

"So what..." John murmured, putting a strawberry into his mouth. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock open his mouth too. Smiling indulgently, John fed Sherlock a piece of fruit after dunking it in the cream.

 

Sherlock chewed on it contentedly and licked his lips before nibbling on John's earlobe until he shoved another strawberry into Sherlock's mouth.

 

John's question about Mycroft's reasons brought Sherlock's mistrust toward his brother back to the fringes of his consciousness, but he was too tired and too happy to worry about it at the moment. There would be enough time later to puzzle over it.

 

But the very next day, a chain of events was to be set in motion that made the question of _'why'_ appear secondary, and which would eventually push it completely into the background.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_**To be continued...** _

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

"Ave Maria" by Franz Schubert:

<http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c2iXEh0SEIg>

 

 

"Air" by Johann Sebastian Bach. Give it a listen - you'll recognise it...

<http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sOOgqZdztGY>

 

 

I have to admit I used this source to describe "Air":

<http://www.jsba.ch/212-bachs-air-herrlich-beschrieben.html>

(link in German)

(Shame on me - but I could never have put it as beautifully myself.)

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 EDIT!!!!

[themuller](http://archiveofourown.org/users/themuller/pseuds/themuller) made a lovely fanart for this chapter on [tumblr](http://themuller13.tumblr.com/post/129227994826/as-he-continued-to-play-flawlessly-now-he)!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My husband says "THANK YOU" for all the lovely wishes and comments directed to him. He even blushed a little as I read each and every one out loud. You made the plot bunny breeder very happy.  
> Thank you. You are all wonderful. I have the best readers in the world.


	34. Insights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation by the fantastic SwissMiss!

 

**Chapter 34 - Insights**

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

The last clear notes of _"Ave Maria"_ had faded. Mabel Turner acknowledged the fact with a wistful sigh. She was just picking over a bowl full of strawberries, visibly moved, when Jacques entered the kitchen. He had been in the cellar and was holding a bottle of wine in each hand, which he set down carefully on the kitchen table.

 

"Mabel, why are you preparing the strawberries now?" he asked, as if he already suspected the answer.

 

"They're for Sherlock," she answered firmly. "I'm going to serve them to him with some cream."

 

Jacques blinked and regarded Mabel aghast. "The strawberries are for the strawberry-melon gazpacho that's being served as an appetiser with dinner tonight."

 

Mabel shrugged and continued picking out the best pieces of fruit from the bowl so she could remove the greenery.

 

"Yes, well, menus can change."

 

"You're wasting Mr Watson's strawberries on that... _racoleur_?!" Jacques cried, appalled.

 

The butler was met with a look that was both amused and scornful. "He played _'Ave Maria'_ for me," she responded in a tone of voice that indicated any further discussion would be superfluous. "He's more than earned the strawberries."

 

"I must not be hearing correctly!" Jacques blustered.

 

"So there'll be chilled cucumber soup tonight. He'll like that too," Mabel declared with cheery satisfaction.

 

Jacques' eyes narrowed with ominous foreboding. "Chilled cucumber soup is not one of Mr Watson's favourites... he prefers tomato."

 

"I know," Mabel said without looking up from what she was doing. "I was talking about Sherlock."

 

"Mabel!"

 

"Oh, Jacques! Stop it now!" Mabel snapped at the butler. "You've heard him playing half the day too. Listen now... he's playing something else." Mabel indicated the open kitchen door, through which were floating the gentle, almost ethereal sounds of Sherlock's violin. Due to the heat of the day, most of the doors in the house had stood open from the early hours of the morning in the hope of getting a little air circulation. "A person who plays the violin so beautifully can't be all bad," Mabel insisted.

 

Just then, Anthea and Thomas entered the kitchen, the latter carrying a full laundry basket.

 

"Who's not all bad?" Anthea asked in passing, indicating that Thomas should put the laundry basket on the floor.

 

"Sherlock," Mabel replied.

 

Anthea snorted. "Why's that tosser still here, anyway? The boss has kept him longer than any of the others."

 

Thomas took an apple from the sideboard and took a crunchy bite. "Why're you complaining? At leasht the bossh's been in a good mood and leavesh ush alone," he mumbled through his full mouth.

 

Anthea gave him a disgusted look. "You're as much of a pig as he is," she declared dryly. "I think he soils the bedclothes so thoroughly on purpose just so I have to re-make the beds every day and get stuck with a mountain of laundry." She shoved the laundry basket with her foot. "It's not normal for there to be semen stains on every single sheet, coverlet, AND pillow cover!"

 

Thomas forced down a big bite of his apple and then said with a broad grin: "Ever thought of the fact that only half the stains are from Sherlock? I'm sure the boss is doing his fair share."

 

"You are such a swine!" Anthea scolded and cuffed his ear.

 

"OUCH!" Thomas cried out louder than necessary. "Anthea hit me!" He appealed to Mrs Turner for help.

 

Mabel rolled her eyes. "I don't have time for your childishness," she stated resolutely. "I need to bring Sherlock his strawberries now."

 

When she returned, she was smiling with delight. "He didn't even notice me... he was so engrossed in what he was doing. Such a good boy."

 

Anthea, who was folding towels, snorted incredulously, which elicited a giggle from Thomas - who was in the middle of sewing a button onto his suit jacket.

 

Jacques, on the other hand, gave the cook a dark look. " _Good boy?_ " he mocked. "Mabel, you're forgetting: that... _salope_... comes right from the gutter!"

 

"Oh, I don't know," Mabel said steadfastly. "I don't think you learn to play the violin like THAT in the gutter."

 

Jacques frowned and already had his mouth open to reply when the sound of a car driving up sounded over the delicate strains of the violin.

 

"Mr Watson's back," Anthea - who was standing closest to the window - reported after glancing outside. She saw Bridges tap his chauffeur's cap and waved to him. "And he's not going anywhere else tonight."

 

" _Eh bien_ ," said Jacques. "I'll take care of it." He straightened his bow tie and went into the entrance hall just as John Watson entered the house.

 

John had a briefcase in his hand, which he handed over to Jacques with a slightly irritated look.

 

"Into the living room please," he said, clearly referring to the briefcase. But before Jacques could respond with a 'very good', his employer spoke again: "Where's that music coming from?"

 

"It appears your guest is responsible," Jacques overcame himself long enough to say.

 

"Sherlock?" John exclaimed in a muted voice. "Really?" A disbelieving smile spread across his face.

 

"Will there be anything else, Mr Watson?" Jacques asked, but received only an absent shake of the head as his boss had already turned away from him in order to follow the sweet music.

 

Jacques took care of his task and brought the briefcase to the living room on the first floor, where he set it on the coffee table - as always. When he went back down the stairs, the music had stopped, and Jacques secretly breathed a little easier. Maybe Mabel would go back to being halfway normal again without that melodious brainwashing.

 

But no sooner had he returned to the kitchen than a loud moan shattered the heavenly silence, and Jacques' face contorted in a pained grimace.

 

"Say what you will, Anthea," Thomas remarked cheekily. "The boss seems to like what Mr Sherlock has on offer - as you can hear loud and clear."

 

"That wasn't Mr Watson," Jacques retorted bitterly. "That was HIM." His mouth twisted with contempt.

 

A second moan with a different pitch joined the first one.

 

"THAT was Mr Watson," Mabel commented lightly as she continued to calmly peel the cucumbers.

 

"Yeah - true," Thomas said. "Now I heard it too."

 

"Oh, God!" Anthea cried in disgust. "Is it always like that around here? They used to only do it upstairs, at least you couldn't hear them up there."

 

Jacques and Mabel gave each other a meaningful look, until Mabel said with a grin: "It's been much worse... do you remember? The one he had that time... right in the middle of the stairs..."

 

"Don't remind me," Jacques replied with a shudder. "I almost tripped over them."

 

Thomas laughed before turning to Anthea. "You haven't been here as long as I have... there used to be a lot more going on around here... The boss has actually been fairly quiet recently. Up to now."

 

Jacques sat down at the kitchen table. He looked tired. "Why am I even still working here?" The question wasn't directed at anyone in particular, but Mabel took it upon herself to provide an answer.

 

"Because he pays you an exorbitant salary - same as us." Then she started in on the list with a knowing smile. "Because you still have a mortgage on your house, because you're paying for your oldest's education, because your youngest wants ballet lessons and because your middle one's got her heart set on a pony. Because your mother..."

 

"All right, all right," Jacques interrupted the cook, who then gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. "I know."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Next morning found Mike in the hallway on the upper storey looking for John.

 

"John?" he called out. Hopefully he wasn't still in bed with Sherlock! They had a lot to get done today.

 

"John's getting dressed," Sherlock's deep voice sounded from the living room, so Mike shrugged and went in. "He'll be ready in a moment," Sherlock said when Mike was standing in front of him. "No, he didn't forget he has a lot to do today and will be out of the house all day," he added with a thin smile. "Tea? Coffee? I can have another cup brought up."

 

"No, thank you," Mike answered, shaking his head, but he did sit down on one of the other chairs at the table. "I've already had breakfast."

 

His gaze slid over Sherlock, who ate half a croissant with a single bite. He looked the same as ever. Mike had seen him often enough wearing nothing more than pyjamas and a dressing gown that it was nothing shocking. The tangled hair, testimony to a wild night, didn't rattle him anymore either. But there was something different this morning. Could it be that, for the first time, Sherlock was sitting at the table as if he belonged there? Was his posture really different? Mike had never thought Sherlock lacked in self-assurance, as insolent and arrogant as he often behaved - but today he exuded a relaxed calm and a certain... _je ne sais quoi_. Mike shrugged to himself. It was really none of his business.

 

He stole a glance around the room before asking in a low voice, "And? Anything new about Charlie?"

 

A dark cloud appeared over Sherlock's brow, and the light-hearted cheerfulness that had brightened his expression disappeared.

 

"No," he answered dully. "Unfortunately," he added with a sigh. "But I'm not giving up."

 

Mike nodded. What else could he do? The whole thing had seemed like a wild goose chase from the start. But it couldn't hurt to have a look around and see what was to be heard - and so he let Sherlock do what he wanted and stuck to his agreement not to tell John anything about it.

 

Out in the corridor, John's short, energetic steps sounded, and the dark cloud promptly disappeared from Sherlock's face. In its place there was a gentle glow, although Mike didn't notice it as he was already looking toward the door when John came in. John didn't see the light brightening Sherlock's countenance either, as Sherlock hid it as well as he could as soon as he caught sight of John. These feelings were too unfamiliar to him and he was too unsure of their ramifications, too uncertain as to how they would be received by John, and whether … Sherlock didn't even dare to hope for his love to be reciprocated now. Maybe... in time... if he could steal his way into John's heart bit by bit, make himself so indispensible that John could no longer imagine life without him.. then maybe... John might some day feel more for him than lust and a certain affection - which even Sherlock had to admit sometimes verged on tenderness. Since the previous day, Sherlock was firmly resolved not to give up hope.

 

And no matter how their relationship might develop - or not develop - in future... Sherlock didn't intend to ever leave John. A life without John had become unimaginable - unthinkable - for him. If John ever wanted to get rid of him, he'd probably have to resort to drastic measures. _'Shooting would be one possibility,'_ Sherlock mused. Short of that, he was unlikely to budge.

 

"Good morning, Mike," John greeted his friend and stopped beside Sherlock's chair. He put a finger under Sherlock's chin and tilted his face up.

 

Sherlock couldn't - and didn't want to - suppress the smile that spread across his lips at the gesture. It had become second nature when John was near. He closed his eyes and opened his mouth a bit to receive John's kiss. Their tongues flicked briefly against each other, yet even that was enough to make Sherlock's body tingle as if it were electrified.

 

"Until tonight," John said in a low voice, tugging a little on a lock of hair behind Sherlock's ear. "Don't get into any mischief, and be good."

 

"And what if I don't?" Sherlock challenged him.

 

John's lips curved up. "Then I'll put you over my knee."

 

"Promises, promises," Sherlock replied.

 

"Not this time," John said cheerfully, kissing him lightly on the forehead. "Now that I think about it... I think I'll put you over my knee either way."

 

Sherlock sighed happily.

 

"Are you done yet? Can we go _now_?" Mike piped up.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Once they were on the stairs, Mike noticed that John was moving as if he were walking on eggshells.

 

"Hey, since when do you walk so funny?" he asked automatically, without really thinking about what he was saying.

 

"Stiff muscles," John replied curtly and with a slight groan. "It's fine on a level surface... but I've just noticed that stairs don't exactly make it better."

 

Mike grinned broadly. "Wild night?" he teased John, running with a deliberately light step down the stairs - which, given the size of his body, did look rather extraordinary.

 

John raised an eyebrow and moaned in relief when he reached the bottom of the staircase.

 

"Do you want details?" he asked cheerfully.

 

"Not necessarily," Mike answered with a shrug. "But... it's really _just_ sore muscles?"

 

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

 

"You know..." Mike remarked smugly.

 

"Good God, Mike!" John cried out, pretending to be shocked and shaking his finger at his friend. "You little pervert! No, he didn't stick his dick in me," he stated frankly.

 

"Hmm," Mike said. "I know that didn't use to be your preference, but... weren't you ever curious?"

 

"No. You?" John retorted dryly, which threw his friend for such a loop that he toppled and almost fell off the last stair.

 

"That's completely different!" Mike protested as he wheezed and grabbed for the railing.

 

"Oh really?" John asked neutrally. "Why's that?"

 

"Maybe because I don't go for blokes?" Mike replied with a touch of sarcasm.

 

John shrugged his shoulders. "Sorry - I still don't see the difference. We're both men, we both have an arse and a prostate. Just because I'd rather fuck men than women doesn't mean I want to be fucked myself. I want it just as much as you do," he said matter-of-factly. "On the other hand..." A mischievous grin spread across his face. "I could give Susan a strap-on... maybe the two of you would find out you like it..."

 

"Don't you dare!" Mike exclaimed, but his mouth had pulled into a grin as well. "Sorry I questioned your masculinity for even a second."

 

"Apology accepted," John allowed with a wry smile. Then he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper: "You know, that ' _Ride a Cock Horse_ ' thing always looks so hot in pornos... okay, it was hot … but... it's bloody hard. And I can bin the chair. But it was worth it," John concluded happily.

 

Mike had to exercise quite a bit of self-control in order not to smack his friend on the back of his head right there in the entry hall. That would have been a field day for the servants. He settled for a stern, long-suffering look and said, "I believe I already said I didn't want any details... do you need it in writing or something?"

 

John just laughed.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

The bomb had been planted in the car several days ago. But it wasn't until that morning - when the driver cut himself shaving and was thus running late and exceeded the speed limit in order to get through the intersection before the light turned red - it wasn't until then that the bomb, which was wired to the BMW's speed meter, armed itself.

 

The detonation would then occur when the vehicle slowed by at least 20 miles per hour.

 

Jim Moriarty loved fairy tales, but he wasn't above taking inspiration from Hollywood movies now and then. Because what were they, if not modern fairy tales?

 

Chief Superintendent Dimmock had just gone by Harrods department store and was passing the Knightsbridge tube station. He groaned with annoyance when he saw the traffic jam ahead at the intersection of Hyde Park Corner, but he didn't take his foot off the accelerator until the car in front of him began to slow down. A soft ' _click_ ' was the last thing Dimmock heard before the bomb in his car exploded in a giant fireball, bringing all traffic in that part of London to a standstill for the next several hours.

 

When the first news reports hit the airwaves, Moriarty's eyes lit up with delight. Dimmock had held his protective hand over John Watson long enough.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Mike and John were sitting in the car again following their second appointment, being piloted cautiously through the thick, stop-and-go traffic by Bridges, when Mike's stomach growled loud enough to be heard.

 

John checked his watch and raised an eyebrow. "You can't possibly need something to eat again already?" he teased in a friendly way.

 

"Breakfast was over five hours ago for me," Mike admitted, rubbing his plump stomach somewhat sheepishly. "What do you say? _Angelo's_ is right around the corner..."

 

"Bridges? Take us to _Angelo's_ ," John instructed his chauffeur, who nodded briskly and turned on the blinker. "We haven't been there in forever," John said to Mike. "So? Are you going to order the tortellini al forno again?" he asked, laughing.

 

"What else?" Mike answered good-naturedly. "You?"

 

"Maybe a pizza..." John said, unconcerned, and looked out the window at the slow-moving traffic. "Bridges? What's going on today?"

 

"According to the radio, there's a car on fire near Hyde Park Corner, sir," Bridges promptly responded. "I'm afraid my old back-alley routes aren't going to do us any good here. Half of London's shut down."

 

"All right, fine," John grumbled. "Mike, give our next appointment a call and let them know we'll be there later."

 

"Will do," Mike agreed, taking his mobile phone out of the pocket of his jacket. When he finished the call after successfully postponing the meeting, he looked over at his friend, who was still staring out the window absently, deep in thought. "Something's going on with you!" he asserted bluntly.

 

"Did you notice anything today?" John asked without taking his eyes off the street.

 

"I don't know what you mean."

 

John took a deep breath and let it out again. "The whispers. The looks. They're talking about me. Me and Charlie." He paused, then continued coolly: "I knew Higgins and his boys couldn't keep their traps shut. I thought I'd have at least a week or two before the talk started up, though."

 

"John... no one seriously thinks that you..."

 

"But they wonder," John countered. "They wonder and they're asking themselves... what the reason for it might be, if I were really behind it... And once they start asking serious questions, doubting me... I don't know if or how long I can keep the shop running."

 

Mike sighed quietly and John nodded.

 

"So that's how you see it too..."

 

"Maybe..." Mike began hesitantly. "… maybe something will turn up before it gets that far. Everyone's toeing the line up to now... you saw that yourself today."

 

"Because they're afraid. Not because they trust me," John said dully. "Fear... it's a shitty motivator."

 

They'd reached _Angelo's_ by this time, which functioned as a kind of inofficial meeting spot for ' _select company'_. Bridges parked the car a few metres away from the entrance to the restaurant.

 

"Thank you, Bridges," John said when the driver held the door open for him. "You can take a break too - go in and order something and put it on my bill."

 

"Thank you, sir," Bridges replied. "But I'd rather wait out here in the car."

 

"Then I'll send a waiter out," John decided with a brief, not unfriendly smile, and went into the eatery with Mike.

 

No sooner had he set foot over the threshold than he was hit by the typical smell of garlic, basil, and strong, hot espresso. It was a scent from his younger days, and like every time when he was virtually enveloped in the aroma, he was overcome by a certain sentimentality. How often had he and Mike drunk a cappuccino here when they were still running around as bag men... they'd always sat at the little round table in the corner...

 

But Angelo had renovated the place years ago, and the little table for two was no longer there. The other table - the bigger, square one near the bar - they'd always taken when Susan and Victor were with them was gone too. John sighed a little wistfully, the way he did every time. He was usually able to shake off his sense of nostalgia right about at this point, but it hung on a bit more tenaciously today, and he was seized by a trace of melancholy. How young they'd all been back then... how ambitious... how carefree. In his dreams back then, he'd always seen himself as the boss - that was his stated goal. And now? Now he'd achieved everything he'd ever hoped for... money, power, influence, a villa, servants, expensive cars, even a chauffeur and bodyguards... but was he happier now than he'd been back then? He'd had Victor then... today there wasn't anyone for him to share it all with. All of a sudden, to his surprise, Sherlock appeared in his mind's eye.

 

" _Buongiorno_!" Angelo's enthusiastic greeting broke into his troubling thoughts. " _Buongiorno, dottore_!"

 

" _Buongiorno_ , Angelo," John returned the salutation with an automatic smile and, together with Mike - who was received with equal enthusiasm - sat down at their usual table, which stood off to one side and allowed them both to sit with their backs to the wall.

 

Mike took the menu Angelo handed them and opened it.

 

"I thought you knew what you..." John started to say, but Mike held the menu up in front of his face and whispered, "Albright's here too."

 

John's eyes searched the restaurant until he spotted Albright, and he nodded to him curtly. Albright returned the nod. He was in the company of Sebastian Moran and two other fellows. The waiter was just bringing four espressos to their table. They'd apparently already eaten.

 

"And why shouldn't he be," John whispered back, unconcerned. "It's a free country. As long as he doesn't start making trouble again..."

 

A waiter approached their table. " _Dottore_? _Signore_ Stamford? Can I bring you something yet?"

 

After glancing quickly at Mike, John said, "Yes... but take my driver's order at the same time - he's sitting out in my car - and put it on my bill."

 

" _Prego_ ," the waiter agreed with a nod.

 

The door to the restaurant opened, and Bridges entered with a worried look on his face.

 

"Ah - there he comes," John told the waiter, but then he saw his chauffeur's dismal look and sat up a bit straighter. "Just a moment," he said to the waiter and indicated with a wave of his hand that he should leave. "What is it?" John asked as nonchalantly as possible, noting from the corner of his eye that all the men at Albright's table had perked their ears up.

 

Bridges bent over and spoke in a low voice: "It's Dimmock, sir."

 

A terrible sense of foreboding came over John, and he felt himself going pale. But it was never a good idea to draw premature conclusions. He therefore pressed for more information: "Dimmock?"

 

"The burning car, sir," Bridges whispered urgently. "It was a bomb. Dimmock's dead. They just reported it on the radio."

 

John remained where he was, sitting absolutely still. His only outward reaction was his lips pressing together into a thin line. He felt his heart beating cold and hard in his chest and for a moment he couldn't hear anything but the blood rushing through his veins.

 

"Thank you, Bridges," he said softly and with great restraint. "Go back to the car and stay on alert. I'm afraid lunch is over."

 

Before Mike could do anything more than give his friend a look of disquiet and alarm, various mobile phones started to buzz, beep, and vibrate around the well-frequented establishment. Albright and his guests took out their phones as well. The news of Dimmock's involuntary demise was spreading like wildfire via text.

 

John continued to sit motionless at his table. His mind was working feverishly, occupied with the single question: ' _Who_?'

 

Who might have an interest in Dimmock's death? None of his people, that was certain. They all profited from the fact that John had bought Dimmock, and in return Dimmock had protected John's organisation.

 

The answer was horrifyingly close, yet it didn't offer a solution to his dilemma.

 

The bomb in Dimmock's car, the bomb at the police ball, and Charlie's death... they were all connected … they had to be connected. There was certain to be only one person responsible for it all. But WHO? Who had such a great interest in forcing John to his knees? And why was that person going to such lengths? A clean shot between the eyes and ' _Arrivederci_ , John Watson.' At least that's how John would have taken care of things. But his adversary apparently didn't want him dead... or not just dead - John wasn't entirely sure about that. But what else did he want? To break the mob? John didn't know. He simply didn't know, and that uncertainty and constant second-guessing was going to drive him insane if it didn't end soon.

 

"What now?" John heard Albright's sharp voice over the susurration in his ears. "Did he have to be eliminated because he was getting too expensive for you, Doc? Do you need your money for something else? Is your little fag starting to make demands?

 

"John..." Mike whispered a warning, but John didn't hear him. He was too busy assembling an attitude of icy dignity.

 

"Well, you know what you're talking about when it comes to expensive whores, Albright," John countered frostily. "And I had nothing to do with this whole thing. I'm as shocked as anyone else here." The moment the words left his mouth, he knew - of all the things he might have said - he'd chosen precisely the wrong one.

 

Albright pressed his advantage immediately. "Fantastic. A boss who doesn't know what's going on," he drawled. "Been happening rather a lot lately. A little too much, some might say... but I understand... I wouldn't know what was going on around me either if I was busy fucking my slut of an accountant in the arse all the time... or does it go the other way round with you? Hm? Doc?"

 

John registered the suppressed, malicious snickers that could suddenly be heard around the entire room. His hands clenched into fists and he stood up.

 

The next thing he knew, Mike was desperately trying to hold his arms behind his back.

 

Albright and his men had jumped up from their chairs, and John realised with a start that he was standing almost right in front of their table. How had he got over there so fast?

 

"Mike! Let me go!" John spat. "I want to pop this fuckwit a couple in the kisser!"

 

"Not here, John!" Mike beseeched him in an undertone, and the hissing in his head slowly started to ebb away. "Let's go," Mike urged him.

 

John's eye fell on Albright once again, whose face was distorted in a peculiar grimace reflecting a combination of fear, anger, and rancour.

 

"All right," John said calmly. "Let's go." Mike released his pincer hold with a relieved sigh. John straightened his jacket and squared his shoulders. "But first I'm going to set something straight." His voice sank to a cold hiss. "No one - absolutely no one - fucks ME in the arse. Got it, Albright? No one fucks me... no one takes me for a ride... no one takes the mick out of me."

 

Albright ground his teeth, but he nodded grudgingly.

 

"Good," John said with chilly composure. "Mike? Now we can go."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

That night, John tossed and turned in bed until Sherlock touched him on the shoulder and asked quietly, "Can't you sleep?"

 

"Smart arse," John grumbled, but he sounded exhausted.

 

"Why did you want to beat up Albright anyway?" Sherlock asked into the darkness.

 

"Didn't you hear what Mike and I..."

 

"Oh, I paid very close attention to what you and he said... as well as to what you didn't say."

 

"No reason to sound so smug."

 

"John? Are you trying to distract me from the subject?" Sherlock pressed with gentle persistence.

 

"Maybe... is it working?" John countered with half a smile, although Sherlock couldn't see it.

 

"Hmmm... no, not really. I assume it has something to do with me. What did he call me? No, don't tell me... let me guess... Cocksucker? Bum boy? Floozy? Whore?"

 

"Something like that," John conceded vaguely.

 

"That's..." Sherlock paused. "Really? I mean... and you... you really... because of me? You would have knocked his teeth out for me?" It sounded both bewildered and touched at the same time.

 

John turned onto his side and tried to make out Sherlock's face, but it was too dark. So he simply said, "Yes."

 

"That's..." Sherlock began again, only to fall silent. He seemed to be searching for the right words. "You don't have to," he finally went on, sounding oddly disheartened. "It's the truth, after all. I... I _am_ a whore."

 

The tiny hesitation in his last remark cut John to the quick. "No, you're not..." he said softly, stroking the back of his finger over Sherlock's cheek. " _Cocksucker_ , on the other hand... It's going to be hard to deny that one," he remarked with a chuckle an in attempt to lighten the mood a bit. He'd had enough emotion for one day.

 

Sherlock moved John's finger from his cheek and led it to his lips. "Thank you," he whispered, ghosting a kiss onto John's fingertips. John felt the faint smile, felt Sherlock's warm breath on his skin and the memory of the sweet, tender, airy sound of Sherlock's violin surrounded him. He groped for the light on his nightstand and turned it on.

 

"Play for me," John said impulsively, holding his breath as he observed Sherlock's reaction.

 

Sherlock blinked into the sudden light and a lack of comprehension showed on his face. "Now?" he asked.

 

"Yeah," John answered, adding, "Please. Maybe I can fall asleep then."

 

Sherlock's expression softened. "Of course," he said simply.

 

Then he got up, slipped into his dressing gown, and went to fetch his instrument from his old room, where he was keeping it. When he returned, he flipped open the violin case. He set the violin on his shoulder and tuned it quickly. A warm smile flitted across Sherlock's lips before he finally began playing.

 

He started with ' _Air_ ' once again, but varied it after a while and then, after a searching look in John's direction, moved on to a different piece without any noticeable pause. It sounded strangely familiar to John, but he didn't really know it.

 

It wasn't until Sherlock got to the refrain that John cried out with a laugh: " _'Let It Be'_? Really? The Beatles?"

 

Sherlock stopped and gave him a once-over. "Oh, right. Of course. My mistake," he said. "Stones. Of course you're a Stones man."

 

"Yeah, getting closer..." John answered somewhat hesitantly. "But... to be honest... Queen?" A faint blush coloured his cheeks when he admitted his preference.

 

"Queen? Seriously?" Sherlock repeated with a grin he was having a hard time controlling.

 

"Are you going to play for me or make fun of me now?"

 

"Can't I do both?" Sherlock retorted.

 

John shook his head. "Just play," was all he said, and Sherlock did him the favour.

 

Back when Sherlock used to play and practise regularly, it was easy for him to play without the sheet music after a while. He could reproduce every piece he'd ever played, every sheet of music he'd ever owned, from memory.

 

But the songs he played for John now were ones he'd taught himself. He'd never bought the music for them, and the impulse behind coming up with his own arrangements for his violin wasn't youthful rebellion, but rather crashing boredom, plain and simple. He'd forgotten most of them over the course of the years, but since yesterday when he held his violin in his hands for the first time in so long, the memories were coming back piece by piece.

 

His memory had always been unusually good in this area. Even now, after the initial - somewhat hesitantly played - notes, entire fragments returned to him, and the more he stopped thinking about it the easier it became for him to remember. It was almost an intimate, sensual experience for him, and he lost himself more and more in the music... stopped thinking about himself... even stopped thinking about John... and yet he was so aware of the other man's presence that it almost took his breath away while at the same time, oddly, letting him breathe easier.

 

Despite the musical liberties Sherlock was taking, John had no problem recognising _'Who Wants to Live Forever'_ , which - for his taste and in his current situation - seemed a tad too melodramatic, almost depressing. Yet he felt his heartbeat adjust to the measured melody, slowing and settling down. He leaned back against his pillows and allowed his body to gradually relax - for the first time since that day at lunch.

 

Sherlock seemed to recognise that his choice of songs wasn't entirely appropriate, and almost imperceptibly eased into _'Don't Stop Me Now'_. John had always felt himself drawn to the double entendres in the text - at least they were in his opinion - and the urgent, almost sexual rhythm. Today as well, his thoughts slid onto a certain track, the same way his eyes slid appreciatively over Sherlock's supple body as he swayed to the beat of a music with an expression on his face that said he was oblivious to everything else around him.

 

He hadn't mentioned with a single word what John had promised him that morning... a rousing spanking for his extremely attractive bottom … and John felt a little bad about it. He'd withheld that particular pleasure from Sherlock for a while now, and today, when he'd wanted to reward him for his patience (or for what counted as _patience_ with Sherlock), everything had conspired against him and an erotic intermezzo had simply become unthinkable. Although Sherlock must have been disappointed about it, he hadn't let on the entire afternoon or evening. Not a single word, not a single reproach, not a single allusion had passed his lips.

 

John was grateful to him for that. Grateful that they didn't have to talk about it. Grateful that Sherlock was able to simply understand certain things - or at least to accept them without reservation. John was so grateful for Sherlock's silent accommodation that he actually did feel the need to talk about it now. He passed his tongue over his upper lip. It had been a long time since he'd been so confused by his own thoughts and desires.

 

Mercifully, the belt of Sherlock's dressing gown - which he'd only knotted loosely - fell open just then, redirecting John's thoughts along other lines at the sight of a stripe of pale, naked skin. The shiny, burgundy red material flapped slightly along with Sherlock's movements, each time giving a different glimpse of the naked body that was hidden so insufficiently underneath it. The taut skin over his collarbone... the edge of a nipple... the perfect little dip of his navel... the slightly rounded shape of a thigh... and a completely slack penis. It was an erotic sight, and yet not one that triggered a driving lust in John. It was more a light, sensual tingle that completely overpowered him, and which he enjoyed to no end. It was like contemplating a well-done sculpture or reflecting on a masterful painting... were those the silent pleasures of the voyeur? John didn't know. He only knew one thing: Sherlock was a goddamned work of art, and John would never tire of simply looking at him.

 

Without Sherlock really being aware of it, the last few notes of ' _Don't Stop Me Now_ ' segued into the beginning of ' _Love of My Life_ '. It wasn't until he repeated the first passage and was playing the smooth, yearning tones for the second time that he realised what he was doing... he'd let his heart speak for him. Loud and clear. He didn't dare look at John. How had he betrayed himself so thoughtlessly? There must be some truth in the saying _'to wear your heart on your sleeve'_. Although it seemed that he was better at choosing his wardrobe than his repertoire when it came to him and his instrument. He shifted into Handel's ' _Largo_ ' as inconspicuously as possible (it was also a love song, so it wasn't exactly less incriminating, but at least it was dedicated to a tree and anyway it was the only piece Sherlock could think of at the moment) and fervently hoped John would... what? That John wouldn't notice any of it? Or at least that he wouldn't understand what Sherlock had just revealed about himself? Or should he rather hope that understanding, comprehension, and love would be returned... ' _That's asking a bit much,_ ' Sherlock reprimanded himself with a contemptuous snort.

 

It wasn't until the final strains faded away - having come out a bit more unsteadily than Sherlock would have preferred - that Sherlock took a deep breath, set the violin down, and looked over at John. John lay on the bed, his eyes closed, his face relaxed. The ' _Largo_ ' had done its soporific duty. Teetering between disappointment and relief, Sherlock stowed his violin in its case and put it on the cupboard between the Chinese vases. Then he went over to John's nightstand and clicked the light off. He stood there a moment until his eyes had more or less adjusted to the darkness, and was just about to walk around the bed to lie down again himself when he thought he heard an indistinct "Sorry."

 

Puzzled, Sherlock sat down on the edge of the bed.

 

"It's all right," he answered softly. He knew somehow that John was referring to his promise which he hadn't kept. Sherlock's bottom was still pristine and white and unblemished.

 

"No, it's not..." John mumbled.

 

"Yes, it is," Sherlock insisted. "Even though I don't understand, since after the mayoral elections..."

 

"That was different. I was just angry then. Furious."

 

"And now?"

 

"But now... now..."

 

Why did John's voice sound so small all of a sudden? So afraid? Oh...

 

"And now you're..." Sherlock paused. Something in him refused to complete the statement, refused to place ' _John_ ' and ' _fear_ ' in the same context.

 

"Yeah," John agreed with quiet, grim determination. "Now I'm also scared witless on top of being angry and I don't even know _who_ or _what_ I'm afraid of." He took an audible breath. "No matter who it is behind this entire fucking mess, he's doing a damn good job."

 

Sherlock didn't know what to answer to that. John was afraid? That was impossible... not John! Not his John... who had always been a tower of strength for him. Sherlock felt helpless. Helpless and incapable and...

 

"Thanks," John said out of the blue, his voice raw. "Thank you for playing for me. I think I can sleep now..." He yawned as if in confirmation. "And that's what I need most. I'll go to Albright first thing tomorrow... and make him... see … reason..."

 

"Why just make him see reason? Why don't you go ahead and eliminate him?" asked Sherlock, to whom the practical value of such an approach made complete and utter sense.

 

"I can't..." John muttered, half asleep. "He's got too many followers... does a damn good job... and now come to bed..."

 

Sherlock got up, sighing softly, let the dressing gown slide carelessly off his shoulders, climbed over John's limp body, and crawled under his blanket. Almost immediately, two arms wrapped themselves around him and pulled him up close to John's warm body. Sherlock closed his eyes and did the only thing for John that he could: he was there for him.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_**To be continued...** _

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

**First things first!**

**http://archiveofourown.org/users/themuller/pseuds/themuller**

themuller made a lovely fanart for chapter 33! (Will upload it there too and in the “Cover Arts” here on Ao3)

<http://themuller13.tumblr.com/post/129227994826/as-he-continued-to-play-flawlessly-now-he>

 

 

 _racoleur_ \- "floozy"

 

 _salope_ \- "slut"

 

 _Eh bien_ \- "well", "all right"

 

 _Dottore_ \- "Doctor"

 

 _Prego_ \- "If you please", "You're welcome"

 

 _Arrivederci_ \- "Good-bye"

 

I've collected the pieces here that Sherlock played for John on the violin... it's amazing all the things you can find when you enter "Queen" and "Violin" as search terms in Youtube. Some of it's really worth listening to...

 

Beatles: „Let it be“ - <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xfSCShaELws>

 

Queen: „Who wants to live forever“ - <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4uRC4nUQSRQ>

 

Queen: „Don’t stop me now“ - <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gahh_hdz-3I>

and: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7pBO5LtrT-0> (I couldn't decide which one I liked better)

 

Queen: „Love of my life“ - <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aTXDi8V6k74>

 

Georg Friedrich Händel: „Largo“ - <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ArLiqN6riEs>

 

And an interesting contribution from Wikipedia:

<https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Serse>

<http://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Serse#Die_Arie_Ombra_mai_fu>

Here's part of the section on " _Largo_ " (also known as " _Ombra mai fu_ "):

(…) wie Händel seinerseits die Eröffnungsszene des Serse gestaltete und mit den Mitteln der Musik die Weichen für die weitere Entwicklung der Handlung und die Charakterzeichnung eines Kriegshelden stellt, der statt Länder zu erobern, auf Freiersfüßen wandelt. (…)

 

[Translation:

… how Handel conceived the opening scene of Serse and, by means of the music, set the course for the subsequent development of the plot and the characterization of a war hero who spends his time in romantic pursuits rather than conquering other lands...]

 


	35. A Change of Scenery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation by the most amazing SwissMiss!

 

**Chapter 35 - A Change of Scenery**

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Mike reached for his mobile, his face contorted with pain, and accepted the call.

 

"Mike!" Sherlock's voice boomed out of the small device without any warning or greeting, even before Mike had a chance to announce he was there. "John and both his bodyguards just left for Albright's! Without you!" It sounded like a reproach.

 

Mike groaned. "First of all - I can't. Lumbago," he explained with a sigh, trying to find a comfortable position in his bed at the same time and failing miserably. "Second - even if I could … John and I agreed it's better for him to go alone. This is something that needs to be discussed in private. His advisor doesn't have any business being there. Just the opposite - it would make John look even worse in his role as head of the organisation."

 

There was silence for a moment, and then the call ended abruptly.

 

"Prima donna..." Mike said in an irritated undertone and set his mobile aside. As if anything could happen to John at Albright's... not even Albright was that careless. He grimaced when the pain in his back hit him again. What was taking the doctor so long?

 

"Susan? Did you really call? If I don't get that shot soon I'm going to die!" he called out, raising his voice to be heard through the open bedroom door.

 

No sooner had Susan shouted back from the kitchen, "No one dies that fast," than Mike's phone rang again. Mike groaned when he saw the number. What did Sherlock want this time?

 

"What is it now?" Mike said as he picked up the phone.

 

"John's scared," Sherlock said. It didn't sound nearly as cocky as his first call. All of a sudden, his voice had a despondent cast to it.

 

"Yeah, I know," Mike said. "So you noticed it too?" He knew John well enough to notice things like that. Maybe it was the same with Sherlock by now - after all, he spent nearly 24 hours a day, every day, with John.

 

"No." There was a brief hesitation on the other end. Then: "He told me."

 

_Told_ ? Wait. John had admitted to Sherlock... no. Strike that. John had admitted to another  _living creature_ that he was scared? That was so unthinkable that Mike had no response to it. John  _would_ never... No. John  _had_ never acted like that. Up to now. What did John see in Sherlock that made him trust him like that? Were there emotions of some sort involved, even if John had denied it vehemently not very long ago? And  _if_ so... what did John mean to Sherlock? How did Sherlock see this whole thing? Mike thought of the looks his friend and the other man had exchanged in his presence, as well as the kisses that were given and received so freely... with any other couple, he would have sworn up and down that behaviour like that could only mean one thing: the two of them were head over heels for each other. But this wasn't just any couple... this was John - who had been badly disappointed by love both in general and in one particular case, and Sherlock - an ex-hooker... and even though Mike had come to appreciate him, he still didn't know anything about him.

 

Mike came close to falling prey to the temptation of playing Cupid for the two men, but then he shook his head firmly and decided to stay out of it completely. The two of them were old enough to deal with it.

 

"I wouldn't have noticed it on my own. Not really," Sherlock went on. Another pause. "Is that bad?" He sounded a little disheartened.

 

Bad? Mike didn't know how to answer that question. What was Sherlock referring to? The fact that John was scared? Or the fact that John had admitted it to Sherlock? Or did Sherlock want to know if it was a bad thing that he hadn't noticed John's fear?

 

But probably not even Sherlock really knew what he meant.

 

"I don't know. Probably not. It'll all work out," Mike answered rather evasively. With his next words, he referred exclusively to whether it was a bad thing that John was scared. "We've always come up with something … no matter how sticky it got... and we've had quite a few fairly sticky situations in the past several years."

 

Mike heard Sherlock breathing, and then the conversation ended with a soft ' _click_ '.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

John walked into Albright's offices together with Dave and Naresh. He didn't have an appointment and probably wasn't expected, judging by the looks of surprise on the faces of the three young men standing around in Albright's lobby.

 

"Where's your boss?" John addressed the young mafiosi with a carefully calculated chill in his voice.

 

"There..." one of them answered, gesturing at one of the two doors on one side of the room.

 

John nodded at Naresh, who stepped forward and opened the door without knocking.

 

Albright was sitting at a desk with Moran standing beside him. Both of them were looking at the screen of a laptop computer on the desk in front of Albright. When the little group burst in on them uninvited, however, the two men looked up.

 

"What the..." Albright started to bluster, but fell silent as soon as he recognised John and his two bodyguards.

 

Dave and Naresh hung back while John stepped forward and deliberately chose a place to stand where he could look down on Albright. He gave first Albright then Moran a once-over with a scornful eye before speaking - his gaze still focused on Moran - with fake sweetness: "Albright - a word."

 

"Say what you have to say, Watson," Albright declared. "Moran's my right hand - I don't have any secrets from him."

 

Moran straightened up. His eyes were, John now saw, light blue, and John's stare was returned without a trace of nerves.

 

John pursed his lips. "Your choice..."

 

Moran inclined his head slightly and retreated a few steps away from Albright's desk. He seemed to be trying to get closer to John, and John wondered whether he were trying inconspicuously - or perhaps unconsciously - to show where his true loyalties lay.

 

"All right." John turned his attention to Albright once again, who was staring at him with anticipation. His posture, however, clearly expressed that he was prepared for anything. "Albright -

you're a bloody good borough head. The best I have at the moment." He chewed on the inside of his cheek. "And I want it to stay that way."

 

"I'm not planning on changing careers," Albright stated neutrally.

 

"No?" John remarked, drawing the word out. "Then you might want to reconsider your behaviour toward me. No - strike the ' _might_ '! You're to stop acting so disrespectfully toward me! Have I made myself clear enough?" A polite yet ice-cold smile still graced John's face and his voice remained modulated, but the message was clear. John wasn't expressing a request, but an order.

 

"My respect... needs to be earned," Albright answered, unmoved. "And your behaviour, Watson … your behaviour recently..." He shook his head.

 

John's anger flared up instantly at Albright's disapproval. He thrust his chin forward. "My behaviour..." he echoed, his voice tight.

 

"Yeah," Albright confirmed. "Your behaviour. What kind of boss doesn't have his shop under control?" Now Albright started to lose his composure as he became more agitated.

 

"I've..."

 

"You've done shit," Albright interrupted him rudely. "What other explanation is there for my nephew..."

 

"Not that again!" John cried out angrily. "Yes, your nephew is dead. A bloody shame. But shit happens! I did all I could to get to the bottom of it! I can't help the fact that Charlie White was shot dead right in front of me before he could say anything more!"

 

Albright had already taken a breath to shout back, but now he just sat there dumbly, staring at John with his jaw hanging open.

 

"Albright?" John asked. Hopefully he wasn't having a heart attack … Out of the corner of his eye, John noted that Moran was standing at an angle just behind him. What was that about? He also saw that Naresh wasn't letting Moran out of his sight, though, so he directed his full attention back to Albright, who was gasping for breath.

 

"Charlie White?"

 

"Yes," John agreed.

 

"Charlie White was the killer who offed Kenneth?" Albright croaked.

 

"Yes, goddammit," John replied in confusion. "I thought I told you that?"

 

"No..." Albright said softly. "I didn't know. When you called, you only told me someone had shot the killer... You didn't give a name and I was still too..." He shook his head. "I didn't ask." Albright stared at the ground. "Well... Charlie White then... That... explains a lot..."

 

Albright and Moran both raised their arms at the same time. Both had a pistol in their hand.

 

John reached for his gun too, but he was too slow.

 

Two shots rang out.

 

Albright collapsed back into his chair. A red spot blossomed on his white shirt in the middle of his chest.

 

"Sorry, Mr Watson," Moran said in a flat voice, lowering the arm with his pistol. "Couldn't warn you in time. He always kept a gun in a compartment under his desk. Had to be faster than him... He would have had you otherwise."

 

Their eyes met, and both men knew that John owed Moran his life. The shot had gone right past his head. John had felt it. He held out his hand, and Moran took it immediately.

 

"Moran - you're the new borough head, as of now. Your first assignment is to sweep this mess under the rug," John said, nodding at Albright's body.

 

"Done," Moran said curtly.

 

John let go of his hand and turned to Naresh, who was standing closest to the door and was just putting away his gun. Apparently neither Dave nor Naresh had been able to pull their guns in time. John really couldn't blame them. They were taken just as much by surprise as he was. Bodyguards or not... John was still the fastest among them when it came to shooting. If not even he had been able to react fast enough...

 

"Why's it so quiet around here?" John asked. "It was like a beehive out there earlier."

 

Naresh shrugged his shoulders and carefully opened the door to check.

 

"Probably buggered off," Moran remarked stoically. "They're all pretty much pansies."

 

"Yeah," Naresh verified. "It's deserted out there."

 

"You need new people, Moran?" John asked.

 

Moran shook his head. "I'll take care of it myself."

 

"We'll probably have to sit down at some point to discuss all of this," John said to Moran. "You'll hear from me."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

No sooner was Moran alone than he made an urgent call on a non-registered mobile phone.

 

"Moran here... I had to shoot Albright. Sorry, boss."

 

He heard Moriarty's barely controlled breathing on the other end of the line. "I hope for your sake there was a good reason."

 

"The Doc was here... they were talking about Charlie, and Albright must have put two and two together. I was never a hundred percent certain, but he must have seen me together with Charlie once or twice. He pulled his gun... wanted to ice me. I had to get there before him."

 

"Moran..." The voice coming from the phone in Moran's hand sounded threatening.

 

"Boss..." Moran tried to appease Moriarty. "The Doc thinks Albright had it out for  _him_ ... I was standing right next to him. Now he thinks I saved his life. Sorry, I know it didn't exactly go according to plan."

 

There was silence on the other end of the line, and Moran felt his palms becoming moist. He was really very devoted to Moriarty, but now and then... when he had one of his episodes, the boss made him uneasy. You never knew what he'd come up with next, and it was entirely possible that he would rid himself of his most loyal and valuable follower without batting an eye.

 

"That's... even better than I could have planned!" Moriarty crowed, and Moran breathed a sigh of relief. "So Watson trusts you?"

 

"I think so," Moran replied. "And even if he doesn't yet... I can work on it."

 

"Do that," Moriarty advised him. "Make yourself indispensible."

 

"And what should I do with Albright's body?" Moran asked.

 

"Oh, I have an idea..." Moriarty declared lightly. "You'll hear from me."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

When John arrived back at his house, he took a deep breath and let it out. Home. Finally. He stepped into the entry hall and waved away Jacques, who had approached him and now retreated again without a word.

 

John held out his hands in front of him. They were still shaking. They'd been shaking since Albright shot at him. He'd been hiding it as well as he could. But now his facade was crumbling fast and it took too much effort to keep it in place. He went to his office with hasty steps and flung the door open. He was fairly relieved to see Sherlock sitting at his desk.

 

Sherlock looked up with a smile. "John..." But the joy of seeing him was quickly replaced by a frown. "Albright... is dead?" he asked uncertainly.

 

"Yeah," John answered bluntly. "Take off your clothes."

 

Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise, but he stood up, unbuttoned his shirt and took off his shoes. He stepped out from behind the desk, undid his trousers, and pulled them down together with his underwear. He started to bend down to take off his socks.

 

"Leave them on," John commanded him sharply. "The shirt too. Get on the desk."

 

Sherlock's attentive eyes slid over John, and rather than obeying without hesitation as he had up to now, he said, "In a moment." Then he went over to John and put his arms around him.

 

A shudder ran through John's body and he started to resist the embrace, but then he clung to the half-naked body in front of him, buried his face in Sherlock's shoulder and struggled to hold back a sob that very nearly burned his throat.

 

"I..." John began, but a gentle kiss to the top of his head made him fall silent.

 

"Later," Sherlock murmured. "Tell me about it afterwards." He extricated himself from John and sat on the desk with his bare bottom. The open shirt slipped off one shoulder, and it hit John like a bolt out of the blue that he'd unconsciously recreated their  _first time_ . The table... the unbuttoned shirt... Sherlock's acceptance and his incredible willingness... it was all exactly like back then and yet completely different. When Sherlock leaned back his torso, spread his legs in invitation, and even pulled one leg in close to his body and held it there, John saw that he was wearing a plug.

 

"You're... why?" John asked gruffly as he opened the flies of his trousers.

 

"I had the feeling this morning that it might be better to be prepared in case it had to go fast," Sherlock explained casually.

 

"You're a bloody miracle," John whispered, reached for the plug, pulled it roughly out of Sherlock's arse, and tossed it behind him without a second thought. Sherlock cried out softly, but his penis began to stiffen. "A bloody fucking miracle," John whispered, his voice raw, and shoved his stiff penis into him, hard.

 

He thrust fast and rough, virtually hammering into Sherlock's body, trying desperately to prove he was still alive, still breathing, that his heart was still beating, that his body was still warm and full of life, that there was another warm body willing to take him in, to give him warmth and affection.

 

It was over pitifully fast. It only took a few strong thrusts to give John an almost desperate orgasm. Silently, accompanied only by a stifled sob, he emptied himself into Sherlock then collapsed on top of him.

 

Fingers ran through his hair, and Sherlock's deep, calming voice asked: "Better?"

 

"Mmhm," went John. Then he looked up as a disturbing thought came over him. "Where's Mike, anyway?"

 

Sherlock laughed. It was the most wonderful sound in the world, and John felt the pressure in his chest lessening just a bit.

 

"You noticed that quick enough," Sherlock laughed, wiping his eyes. The laughter and the movement of his abdominal muscles pushed John abruptly out of the warm, narrow orifice, and he gasped for air.

 

"Is that the way you give someone a send-off?" he complained.

 

"Sorry," Sherlock snickered. "Sorry..."

 

"What's so funny anyway?" John asked with a dubious grin.

 

"I'm... I'm just picturing... Mike's face... if his presence hadn't... stopped you..." Sherlock explained with some effort.

 

"Oh God," John groaned. "I don't think I actually would have..."

 

"Oh yes," Sherlock contradicted him, chuckling. "I think you still would have taken me right here on the desk."

 

"Yeah, I'm afraid I would have," John conceded before joining in Sherlock's liberating laughter. With every giggle, the pressure in his chest abated and the shock that had held him firmly in its claws since those two shots seeped out of his body.

 

"We can't just lie around here sniggering like schoolboys," John finally said breathlessly. "We just had sex."

 

Sherlock gave him an amused look. "So? And anyway...  _we_ didn't have sex...  _you_ had sex."

 

"Ooohh," John said with mock regret. "Does someone feel neglected?"

 

"Rather," Sherlock pouted, pressing his hard cock against John's stomach to underscore his point.

 

John sat up and let his gaze wander with lascivious interest over both Sherlock's body and his erection. Sherlock stretched and wrapped his long legs around John's hips.

 

"How did you... why are you still hard?" he asked, both fascinated and a bit bewildered.

 

"Easy," Sherlock said, shrugging his shoulders as a faint pink rose to his cheeks. "You're here..."

 

John shook his head in disbelief. "That's enough?"

 

Sherlock swallowed hard, the happiness and warmth in his face giving way to a certain soberness. And all of a sudden he was exuding that surreal calm that still had the power to cast a spell over John.

 

"Today it was," Sherlock explained softly. "Today it was enough."

 

Just then, John realised that Sherlock knew somehow that his life had been in danger today. Without thinking about it, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's hard cock. He cut off Sherlock's surprised moan with another kiss on his full lips.

 

"Take what you need," John murmured between two kisses, licking Sherlock's neck with his tongue.

 

With a throaty sigh, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's shoulders, pulled him flush against him, and started rubbing his groin against John. John felt the heat emanating from Sherlock's erection through the thin material of his shirt, felt the firm pressure on his stomach, and didn't give a flying fuck that those stains were never going to come out of his black shirt.

 

He dropped hot kisses into Sherlock's curls and held his trembling body as tight as he could... withstood the feverish movements... felt the initial, telltale twitching of his hips... the tension in his muscles... the panting breaths against his neck... the fingers digging into his back... the brief pause... and then... the warm wetness spreading on his shirt.

 

"Oh... John..."

 

More sigh than form of address.

 

And a kiss that said everything beyond what words could do.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Later, John called Mike, who was still laid out flat with back pains. The doctor was going to have to come to give him another injection.

 

"Albright did  _WHAT_ ?!" Mike shouted into the telephone, and John held his mobile away from his ear with a pained expression.

 

"He shot at me," John explained with an equanimity he'd only rediscovered recently in Sherlock's arms. They'd made it to the bed by now, where Sherlock was plastered to John like an ivy branch around a tree trunk, and John was thoroughly enjoying the full-on contact.

 

"Did the man lose his mind?" Mike gasped.

 

"Probably," John concurred. "He's never really been right in the head since his nephew's death."

 

"Yeah... grief can do things like that," Mike said thoughtfully. "And Moran shot him?"

 

John nodded. "Saved my life." Sherlock's arms tightened even more around his body at those words, and John squeezed a little harder with the arm that was wrapped around Sherlock's shoulders as well.

 

"And where the hell were your bodyguards?" Mike swore. "And you? You didn't just sit there? You're the fastest draw I know! Oh my God - you left the house without your piece! That's what happened, isn't it? John - one of these days I'm going to kill you! You can't be so careless!"

 

"Mike,  _Mike_ \- Mike!" John tried to get a word in edgewise, laughing a bit. "I had my gun with me. I had my bodyguards with me. The fact is..." He sighed softly. What he was about to say was a difficult thing for him to admit. It had been bloody difficult and unpleasant enough to admit it to Sherlock, who had never looked at him with anything other than devotion. But he'd told him, and he was going to come clean with Mike too. 

 

"The fact is... I was too slow. Dave and Naresh were too slow. Moran was... faster. The fastest shot I've ever seen." The praise tasted bitter on his tongue. "Although Moran did know that Albright had a gun within reach under his desk. That's why he was able to react more quickly. Dave, Naresh and I never thought Albright might shoot at me."

 

John heard Mike exhale.

 

"I wouldn't have thought it either," Mike admitted. "I hope you made Moran borough head?"

 

"Yeah," John replied, somewhat roughly. "Of course I did. Do you think I'm stupid?"

 

"Sometimes," Mike answered impassively. "And what are you going to do about Dimmock's replacement?"

 

Now John took a deep breath, his annoyance audible. "Talk to Mycroft Holmes. Again."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Mycroft Holmes sat down on the threadbare, upholstered seat next to John Watson. The flickering of the pictures moving on the big screen only illuminated the room dimly. The groaning and the music coming from the loudspeaker didn't entirely drown out the heavy  breathing of the exclusively male audience.

 

"Was it really necessary to meet me at an adult cinema?" Mycroft asked with disgust. He didn't want to know exactly which substances and bodily fluids the cushions of his chair had already come into contact with. As soon as he was done here, he was going to have no choice but to burn his suit. And it had just been delivered by his tailor last week. Rather bothersome. But there was nothing to be done about it now.

 

"I'd understood from our last conversation that you'd appreciate a change of scenery," John replied calmly. "You kept complaining about our meeting place, didn't you?" A superior grin appeared on his face.

 

"You really find this to be an appropriate spot to... discuss certain things?" Mycroft retorted scornfully.

 

John's grin became wider. "I don't know what your problem is. It's perfect! It's dark enough that we won't be recognised... it's too loud to be overheard... and everyone else here is so involved with their own business... even Prince Charles could rub one out in here without being noticed."

 

Mycroft took a deep breath. A sharp, disapproving glare was directed at John.

 

"How can you mention the heir apparent to the throne in the same breath as this highly dubious establishment?" he scolded John.

 

"My goodness... he's just a man... I'm sure he plays pocket pool now and then."

 

Mycroft closed his eyes, pained. "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that..."

 

John continued with an oily grin. "When you think about it... a VIP like that really has a shitty life. Can't even spend a night with a couple of girls without the whole nation finding out about it."

 

Up on the screen, another man joined the woman and the man who had been enjoying each other's company alone - and rather acrobatically. The grey temples of the newcomer (and from the looks of things, he was more than ready to do so) reminded Mycroft of a certain Detective Inspector, who had acted so painfully proper the last time they'd seen each other that it had rubbed even Mycroft the wrong way. When Mycroft caught himself wondering whether Inspector Lestrade's equipment was also as well-proportioned as that of the porn star, his face pulled into a grimace and he called himself to order.

 

"Hopefully no one saw  _me_ setting foot in this...  _palace of pleasure_ ," Mycroft said, his voice full of repugnance. "I can't afford a scandal."

 

John shrugged his shoulders, unconcerned. "There's practically no chance of that. Didn't my men smuggle you in through the back entrance?" He waited for Mycroft's curt, unhappy nod before continuing. "Well then. I really don't see the problem. The emergency exit you came in through is also used by a beautician and an Asian place. You can always say you were having some manscaping done."

 

"You can scarcely imagine my relief," Mycroft rejoined acidly. "And now can we finally get down to business?"

 

"Love to," John agreed. The grin disappeared from his face. "Dimmock," he said in all seriousness. "Dimmock needs to be replaced. I have my eye on someone... a certain Tobias Gregson. Throw your weight around. I don't care how you do it, but I want Gregson to be Dimmock's replacement."

 

"That's going to be rather difficult," Mycroft answered in a dull tone that made John perk up his ears.

 

"Why?" he asked sharply and with an ominous sense of foreboding.

 

"Because the decision's already been made."

 

"What?" John shot back tightly. "How could that happen?"

 

Now it was Mycroft's turn to shrug. "She's not a man, she's not white... she fills two quotas with one hire... the general state of euphoria knows no bounds," he described the situation dryly. "Her name is Donovan. Sally Donovan."

 

"Who the hell is that?" John wondered, upset. "Where does this bird come from? I've never even heard a word about her."

 

"She was recently transferred to London from  Belfast ," Mycroft answered him readily. "Excellent credentials... only the best references... not a single speck of dust on her snow-white blouse."

 

"Ah ha," John said. "So she doesn't seem exactly kosher to you either."

 

"She's too... perfect," Mycroft affirmed. "You should probably prepare yourself for her being anything but well-inclined toward you."

 

"Who's paying her?" John came right to the heart of the matter.

 

"My inquiries haven't made it that far," Mycroft admitted sourly. "It could be anyone."

 

"Anyone... but me," John retorted, irritated.  _Why was everything going wrong these days? It was enough to drive him mad!_

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Mycroft also had the feeling lately that the reins were slipping out of his hands. Without being aware of it, he asked himself the same question as Doc Watson had:  _Who could he really rely on? Who could he still trust?_

 

Not that he'd ever truly trusted anyone... other than himself... but that system didn't seem to be working as smoothly as it used to, and he wondered whether it weren't time to place his trust in someone else. Even Doc Watson had confidants... why shouldn't he...

 

Mycroft shook his head indignantly. Was he comparing himself to a mob boss now? Was he even using him as a standard? How low had he sunk!

 

At any rate, he knew who he could rely on. Inspector Lestrade's honesty and integrity had made an unusually strong impression on Mycroft. He would trust the man in a second. The Inspector, however - once he'd resumed work following his hospital stay - had remained deliberately professional, businesslike, and extremely close-lipped.

 

Mycroft never would have thought he would appreciate the informality and fearless persistence of another individual, let alone miss it. But it was true.

 

All of their meetings since then - and there had been quite a few - had been characterised by a deliberate, practical efficiency... and a remarkably businesslike chill. There had been no room anymore for meaningful questions or remarks of a personal nature, which Mycroft would have roundly rejected from any other inquisitor, and the absence of which he now regretted.

 

Mycroft had caught himself time and again recalling those earlier meetings with a certain nostalgia, the same way other people might think back to a sun-drenched, golden summer of their youth. He was certain that Gregory felt much the same and was simply too stubborn to admit it, or at least to take the first step toward a reconciliation and restoration of their former status quo.

 

There had also been other signs... signs that pointed to Gregory's interest in him being of an entirely unprofessional nature... signs that one might interpret, with a bit of imagination, as  _desire_ . And a bit of imagination was necessary, as Gregory was a very guarded man in this regard - just like Mycroft himself. It was an aspect of his character that Mycroft acknowledged and understood, and which, for the first time in his life, he  _didn't_ approve of.

 

Therefore, when Lestrade appeared for another meeting that evening, Mycroft was prepared - as far as he was able - and willing to do some of what one might call  _persuading_ .

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

It was already a late hour when the two men finished discussing all the important points which would guarantee the security of London for the next few days. All of the other offices were now abandoned, and Mycroft's secretary had also gone home already - with Mycroft's permission. The distorted reflections of the glittering lights on the night-black Thames remained unnoticed by the two men, however, as the conversation turned to Sally Donovan.

 

"Is it possible... that her appointment wasn't exactly clean either?" Greg probed hesitantly.

 

"Why ' _either_ '?" Mycroft asked back. He knew the answer perfectly well, of course, but he wanted to know how far Greg was willing to go with his insinuations.

 

Greg blurted out a quick, coarse laugh. "Dimmock's promotion? There was something fishy about that too!"

 

Mycroft didn't respond to that, instead choosing to retreat into silence. However, he did return Greg's questioning look without turning away.

 

Greg bit his lip after a while before finally saying, "All right. What do you need? What do you want to know?"

 

"Inspector?" Mycroft was somewhat surprised by the remark - pleasantly surprised - and tried to hide it behind a quirked eyebrow.

 

Greg snorted. "Don't act so innocent. If you'd helped Donovan along, you'd be much more smug right about now. So if you want to know something about the lady... I'm your man."

 

At the sound of those particular words, Mycroft's second eyebrow joined the first, and a faint blush appeared on Greg's face. He didn't correct himself, though.

 

"You trust me?" Mycroft asked cautiously. "Even though you have reason for certain suspicions about me?"

 

Greg nodded. It came across as grim. "I love this town," he declared out of the blue. "And I've had a really bad feeling lately... It hasn't got any better with Donovan's appointment. I think... if... anything's gone wonky in London... or is going to go wonky... then you're the only one I trust to set it all to rights again. And you're probably also the only one who's actually in a position to do so." His nod seemed thoughtful this time. "At the same time, I can't shake the feeling that I'm not going to like the way you go about it. Still... there's something rotten about this Donovan, and if I can... help you... then... I'll do it. You can count on me."

 

This blunt declaration of loyalty touched Mycroft more than he'd expected. Doc Watson's remarks in this direction must have hit him harder and deeper than he'd wanted to admit. But now he was also apparently in the position of being in possession of a confidant, and Mycroft could virtually feel his forehead smoothing out.

 

"I admire your integrity greatly. Sometimes I truly feel as if you were the last honest police officer in this city."

 

"What can I say?" Greg responded with a sheepish grin. "I always wanted to be a cop, ever since I was a kid. Justice and security and all that..."

 

"You shouldn't make it sound ridiculous," Mycroft interjected. "You have ideals. That's become a rare thing these days. As I said... I admire that in a man." Mycroft paused and looked down at his hands, which lay folded in his lap. Did he dare? Greg's odd formulation seemed to underscore his own assumptions... a misunderstanding wasn't entirely unthinkable, however, and would entail endless embarrassment. Should he wait a bit longer? For another time? For a better opportunity? He shook his head to himself and came to a decision. There would never be a better opportunity. Now or never.

 

He took a deep breath, stood up, and returned Greg's curious gaze with stoic calm. Then he forced himself to say the words that had lain on his tongue for several minutes now: "And it doesn't awaken mere admiration in me... I find it quite attractive, actually."

 

"Mr Holmes?" Greg blurted out.

 

"In fact, I find it so attractive that I'm seized by the desire to kiss you. All right, to be completely honest, it's not a desire  _just_ to  _kiss_ you, but kissing would be quite acceptable for a start. Don't you agree?"

 

"I- I'm a married man!" Greg stammered, but didn't move away when Mycroft took a step closer to him.

 

"Oh yes," Mycroft said, unperturbed, and drew out the notebook he'd deposited in his front trouser pocket for just this purpose. "Let me see. Married twelve years, no children. Your wife is frequently unfaithful to you - which you don't much care about, since your favourite internet page is  _gay dicks dot com_ . Oh - you're a premium member there, I see. And such a charming user name, too.  _Randy Rozzer XX_ ..."

 

"All right, all right! Enough!" Greg interrupted him loudly. "I think I've got it. You're going to try to blackmail me with what you know, but it won't work. I'll turn in my resignation first thing tomorrow." His face was white, but his voice sounded firm and determined. When he'd finished speaking, he pressed his lips together so hard that only a thin line was left. His eyes were still focused directly at Mycroft. Firm. Determined. Unyielding. Prepared to assume the consequences for his actions and his preferences. The last honest cop, who would rather put an end to his career and his professional life than expose himself to blackmail and not live up to his own moral standards.

 

Mycroft's eyes widened in shock, but he followed Greg's example and retained his composure.

 

"Inspector Lestrade... I... never had the intention of utilising my information in that manner," he replied in measured tones. "Please forgive me. My behaviour was highly inappropriate. I only thought... but I must have misinterpreted entirely the power of any allure I might have over you. Please, allow me to see you out." He extended an arm to show Greg the way to the door. How could he have been so stupid! All those little signs which - in his eyes - could only mean the one thing... all of it, a misunderstanding! Why hadn't he been able to keep his mouth shut?

 

Greg gave him a long look, his eyes narrowed, before grabbing Mycroft by the lapels of his jacket, pushing him back against the nearest cabinet, and kissing him feverishly. Mycroft quickly recovered from his shock, flung his arms around the Detective Inspector and breathlessly reciprocated the fairly rough kisses. The notebook fell to the floor, forgotten.

 

"Gregory..." Mycroft whispered, his voice raw.

 

"If you knew how often I'd..." Greg murmured between two kisses.

 

"Then I wasn't wrong after all..." Mycroft determined, both relieved and smug, and let his lips wander down Greg's neck as he inserted his thigh between the man's legs.

 

"Oh God... yeah - do that again..." Greg groaned, rubbing himself demandingly against Mycroft.

 

"My goodness... someone's rather eager," Mycroft remarked with a smirk.

 

"Don't talk, fuck me," Greg instructed him bluntly and tugged at Mycroft's tie. "I hope your dick's just as big as I always imagined it."

 

"You concocted fantasies about me? For shame, Inspector!" Mycroft cried in mock reproach as he unbuttoned Greg's shirt.

 

Greg grinned broadly. "Fairly detailed ones at that."

 

"Then I can only hope that reality lives up to your fantasies. I would feel terrible if I were to disappoint you."

 

They each pulled impatiently at the other's clothing until Greg shoved Mycroft's hands away with a laugh. "That's not going to work," he said, unbuttoned his own trousers and pushed them down his legs together with his underwear.

 

Mycroft swallowed hard, his throat dry, when he saw Greg's naked loins and erect penis for the first time. He suddenly felt shy, and slightly awkward, even though he could tell at a glance that his organ was larger than the Inspector's. Still, it wasn't merely arousal that made his fingers tremble when he followed Greg's example and rid himself of the clothing on his lower body.

 

When Greg slipped out of his loafers, Mycroft realised too late that he still needed to untie his shoes. With red cheeks and naked bum, he leaned down, embarrassed, needing much too long to loosen his shoelaces and take off his shoes. His fingers then moved - under Greg's eager eye - to his waistcoat in order to unbutton it.

 

"No..." Greg said with a warm smile and touched Mycroft's fingers to stop what they were doing. "Leave all of that on." Mycroft nodded silently. Astonishingly, he was incapable of making any further remark. In contrast, his nerve endings seemed to be on full alert. Even the smallest touch sent shock waves out from his brain. Both Greg's hands and his warm, shining eyes slid down Mycroft's body. When firm fingers closed around his erection and stroked his balls, Mycroft's eyes fell shut as if of their own accord, and he moaned softly.

 

"Ooooh yeaaah..." Greg whispered, drawing the words out. "Perfect. Just perfect. I can hardly wait to feel you inside me."

 

Warm lips covered Mycroft's neck above his shirt collar, leaving a burning trail on his skin. Then all of a sudden everything was gone. The lips, the hands, the warmth, and the closeness. Mycroft blinked in confusion. But Greg had just bent over to retrieve a small cardboard box out of one of the pockets in his jacket, which he now handed to Mycroft.

 

Mycroft opened the square box and took out two foil packets. One obviously contained a condom, and the other was filled with a small amount of lubricant gel. Mycroft squeezed the gel packet, assessing the contents. There wasn't much.

 

"It won't be enough," he pointed out.

 

"Yes, it will be," Greg answered, unconcerned. "Since I've been sticking a dildo up my arse every night for months now, which turns out to be just about the same size as you..."

 

Mycroft's throat went as dry as a bone. "Months?" he croaked.

 

Greg shrugged his shoulders. "Months," he affirmed and dug his teeth into his lower lip. "I have a thing for these suits..." He ran a finger down Mycroft's waistcoat. "They're pure porn for me... and when you wore a watch on a chain..." He shook his head, chuckling. "Those were my happiest moments. I never would have thought... never even hoped..."

 

Mycroft cut off his words with a long, deep kiss.

 

"You're right," Greg whispered, biting his lip again when their erections brushed each other. "Talk... We can talk later... Do it fast now... honestly, I'm stretched enough," he growled at Mycroft, pulled away from him and went over to the desk. On the way there, he slipped out of his shirt. He was now wearing only socks. "How about it?" he called over his shoulder. "Or do I need to give you a written invitation?"

 

"On- on the desk?" Mycroft stammered, taken aback, only to get annoyed at himself for having let his surprise show.

 

"Yep. On the desk."

 

"You... you do know that I..."

 

A sly grin appeared on Greg's face. "That you're going to think about what we did here every time you sit down to work? I certainly hope so."

 

Mycroft's heart rate shot up, and for a moment he wasn't aware of anything other than Greg, leaning against the desk and letting one hand stroke playfully over his stiff cock. But then he returned to reality with a jerk, remembering who he was and what responsbilities he bore. Although everything in him was screaming for him to go join Greg, he first went to the door of his office, locked it carefully, left the key in the lock and dimmed the lights. He'd been much too careless on this evening already, but he thought he could suppress a few paparazzi photos of the mayor kissing. However, he didn't particularly feel like explaining to the world - and his mother - any images of the mayor having a fuck.

 

"More romantic than I thought..." Greg whispered when Mycroft was finally standing in front of him. Their lips met in another kiss that began gently but quickly turned hungry.

 

"Okay," Greg panted. "Enough foreplay for today." He turned around in Mycroft's arms so his back was toward him and supported himself with his lower arms on the desk.

 

Mycroft stared at the proffered arse and swallowed hard. His pulse was racing, his erection was more than happy about the possibilities that were being offered, and yet... there was no way around it - Mycroft was nervous. More nervous than the time he'd had to give his first speech in public. Maybe more nervous than he'd ever been before in his life. It was an extremely unpleasant feeling that bore with it a hint of inadequacy. Even though he wasn't inadequate at all... and never had been! But his hands shook now as he unrolled the condom over his stiff penis and fumbled clumsily with the packet of lube.

 

The evening was going differently than he'd planned. He'd reckoned with a few kisses, maybe manual or even oral stimulation... but Greg's direct and almost aggressive sexuality had jettisoned all his preconceptions without so much as a by-your-leave. Greg's desire had simply overwhelmed him. Not that he didn't want it too... but maybe it was going just a tad too fast for him.

 

He put his hand on Greg's arse and opened his mouth to say something, when Greg moaned at his touch and spread his legs. All the words Mycroft had ever known escaped him completely at the moment. Had he wanted to say something? And if so, what had it been? Surely nothing important, otherwise he'd remember... although... was he even still breathing or had he forgotten to do that too? Mycroft gasped for air. The part of his brain that was responsible for instinctive actions took control. Later, he'd never recall how he managed to tear open the packet of lubricant and spread it evenly over his erection and Greg's opening. He didn't come back to his senses until his groin was pressing against Greg's arse.

 

The realisation that he was completely seated inside Greg was slow to come to him, and ended up overpowering him. He ceased thinking and let his body take over the reins. Almost automatically, he started to move, quickly falling into an urgent rhythm. Greg moaned, and Mycroft held his hips a little more firmly in order to thrust even faster. Greg was so hot, so tight, so good, and his throaty groans only served to urge Mycroft on. It wasn't often that he'd fallen victim to fleshly lust in his life, and it had been a long time since he'd even felt aroused. Perhaps that was the reason why it was so exciting now with Greg... in both the best and worst possible ways.

 

All thought and sensation was reduced to those few square inches, whose stimulation provided Mycroft with a lust he hadn't felt in a very long time - perhaps not ever. It was exciting... nerve-wracking and arousing at the same time. Mycroft's legs shook as he drove into Greg's heated body, faster and faster, chasing his orgasm, blind to everything else around him.

 

"A little more... a little more," Greg's hoarse voice reached his ears, but it was too late.

 

The ecstatic urge rose up in Mycroft, now impossible to put off, until he plunged in once more, hard, giving himself over to the release of climax.

 

He thought he heard Greg curse softly, somehow registered him masturbating almost frantically, and then he felt the muscles clench around his softening penis... once... twice... three times... Mycroft pushed once more with a happy sigh into the renewed tightness and rode out the last waves of his pleasure before Greg's arm - the one he'd been holding himself up with on the desk top - collapsed and his chest sank down onto Mycroft's desk.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Still breathing hard, both men sat on the floor with their backs to the desk, which they were using as a backrest.

 

"Thank you for..." Mycroft said with a vague gesture toward the used condom lying on the floor between them.

 

"No problem," Greg answered with a lighthearted grin. "Next time you can do the honours."

 

Mycroft looked up at the ceiling. "I'm afraid that's going to be a bit difficult."

 

Greg had been rummaging around in his clothes, but froze where he was when he heard Mycroft's words.

 

"Okay..." he said calmly before turning to Mycroft again. "Was this one of those FANTA things?"

 

"Fanta?" Mycroft's expression reflected his confusion.

 

"Yeah, FANTA," Greg shot back heatedly. "Fuck And Never Touch Again."

 

Mycroft's brain took longer than usual to make the connection between the words, the last few minutes, and Greg's suddenly cool attitude.

 

"Oh... you think... no! No..." Mycroft assured him. "No... I simply wanted to express the fact that it won't be possible for me to go into a shop and purchase prophylactics and lubricant."

 

It was ridiculous how quickly Greg's face smoothed out and once again displayed that calm contentment and warmth that Mycroft found so attractive.

 

"Oh, right..." was all Greg said. Then, after thinking for a bit, he added, "And you can't send someone out to buy the stuff for you either. Ordering it over the internet's also right out." He fumbled around in his clothing once again, finally coming up with a pack of cigarettes. He opened it, took out a cigarette, and shoved it between his lips. With a practised motion, he took a cheap plastic disposable lighter out of the pack too and lit his cigarette. "It's moments like this I'm glad I'm not famous. Pretty shitty life." He took the first drag, sighed with contentment and let the smoke slowly escape his mouth.

 

"Prince Charles probably has similar problems," Mycroft remarked absently. Unfortunately, that made him think of how similar Greg and Doc Watson were in certain regards. He nicked the cigarette out of Greg's mouth with two fingers in order to banish the memory of the mob boss.

 

Greg laughed and watched as Mycroft took a drag, only to cough discreetly.

 

"Do you even smoke?" he asked, taking the cigarette back.

 

"That depends who you ask... my mother would reply to that question negatively. And you? I've never seen you smoke before."

 

Greg shrugged his shoulders lightly. "I stopped ten years ago."

 

Mycroft felt a chuckle bubbling up in his throat. The sensation was so unfamiliar that he suppressed it automatically. But when he felt Greg's shoulder against his, he allowed himself an extremely pleased smile, at least.

 

"It's nuts..." Greg said softly, leaned his head back and blew cigarette smoke up toward the ceiling.

 

"What?" Mycroft asked, stealing the cigarette for another drag.

 

"Well... you're my first man in..." He broke off, seeming to calculate something in his head. "Over fifteen years." Greg sounded surprised. "Wow. Fifteen years." He shook his head. "How did I hold out so long?"

 

"But... your wife is a notorious adulteress," Mycroft replied in bewilderment. "I would have assumed you had some sort of... agreement."

 

Greg shrugged again. "Well," he said bitterly. "That's the funny thing about marriage. Never did manage to follow her example. Couldn't bring myself to cheat on her... until... today..." he realised with mild astonishment and took the cigarette back. He smoked silently for a while before returning the cigarette to Mycroft.

 

"You're too good for this world," Mycroft said, taking a drag.

 

Greg snorted in amusement. "You're one to talk... so you had someone check up on me, did you?"

 

"A little," Mycroft admitted. "Does that bother you?"

 

Greg leaned his head back and gazed up at the ceiling in thought. "It should actually, shouldn't it?" He bit his lower lip. "But..." He shook his head. "The ends justify the means... I'm... I'm happy that it... that you took the first step. Even though you're terrible at flirting. Bit rusty, eh?"

 

Mycroft thought about how long it had been since his last  _interlude_ . "Ever since I dedicated myself to my career...  _completely_ dedicated myself... Yes, it's been a while," he finally answered. "As if you're any better..."

 

"Oy,  _I_ haven't forgot how to flirt," Greg stated.

 

"Oh, please!" Mycroft blurted out with mild scorn. "You're the one who just said you'd never cheated on your wife!"

 

"I haven't," Greg insisted. "There are other ways of interacting with people than having sex right off the bat."

 

"Indulge me," Mycroft challenged him patronisingly.

 

"Phone sex... internet chats... why do you think I signed up to that site as a premium member? Because of the chatroom... because of the private messaging service... but you've got to flirt a bit there too before you find someone to spend a quickie half-hour with online."

 

"With or without a dildo?" Mycroft asked dryly, and Greg laughed. "Didn't your wife ever complain?"

 

"We have separate bedrooms..." Greg explained, somewhat shamefacedly. "For years now. It... stopped working at some point... The sex and... all the rest..."

 

"But you're attracted to both sexes?" Mycroft asked.

 

"Yeah... no... not really," Greg answered in a conflicting way. "I thought I was... but... when it didn't work with Evelyn... I never thought of another woman... it was always just other men."

 

"You never should have married," Mycroft pointed out, somewhat brusquely.

 

Greg rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "It's easy to say that," he remarked bitterly. "I liked her - and I wanted to have a career with the police."

 

"You don't need to be married for that," Mycroft countered.

 

Greg laughed unhappily. "You did back then. It looked better in the files." He sighed. "Times were different when I started out. Today... today a same-sex partner wouldn't be a problem anymore." His gaze became clouded, and his voice took on an envious tone.

 

"Aside from that..." Mycroft said slowly. "Regarding your career with the police … I'm afraid your marriage didn't exactly give you an advantage there."

 

A sheepish grin materialised on Greg's lips. "No, that was all down to a certain mayor appearing in my life," he freely admitted, "and making me... his  _protégé_ ."

 

"Ah ha," Mycroft said dryly, but his lips curled in amusement as well. Greg's candor, his directness, and his (somewhat black) humour - which spared neither Mycroft nor himself - were a rarity in Mycroft's world, which made them all the more refreshing... and precious.

 

"Protégé," he echoed slowly. "Is that what they're calling it these days?"

 

"No," Greg laughed. "They're still calling it a  _sex scandal_ ."

 

"Mm-hm," Mycroft said vaguely, looking down at his naked legs. He should really get dressed rather than sit around the whole time on the floor in nothing more than his shirt and waistcoat. His eyes wandered over Greg, who sat beside him, utterly at ease. He was completely naked except for the socks on his feet. It should have looked ridiculous, or somehow perverse... but it just seemed... natural.

 

An almost companionable mood lay in the air, and Mycroft wished it could last a bit longer - he didn't want to ruin it with something as mundane as getting dressed. It was pleasant just to sit here next to each other, sharing a cigarette and talking. Mycroft had never done anything like it before and found now that it filled him with a deep, inner peace.

 

"How about you?" Greg asked suddenly.

 

Mycroft blinked.

 

"Me?" he asked blankly.

 

"Yeah, you," Greg grinned. "Are you bi?"

 

"I've thoroughly explored all of the options at my disposal."

 

Greg burst out with a snort of laughter. "God... I love when you talk like that... I bet you've got charts."

 

"Yes," Mycroft affirmed, puzzled. "With a scale of one to ten for..."

 

"It was a joke!" Greg interjected, staring at Mycroft with both shock and amusement. "You really made a chart?"

 

"Of course. How else could I..."

 

"Never mind," Greg interrupted him and let his head fall onto Mycroft's shoulder. "Just tell me what your conclusions were."

 

Greg's hair tickled his ear and his cheek. He smelled like sweat and cheap shampoo. Good God - was that  _green apple_ ? Apple shampoo? Awful. And yet... or perhaps because of that... just a bit...  _arousing_ .

 

"Undecided," Mycroft answered the question absently. "I determined that intimate relationships generally don't deliver what they promise."

 

"Don't worry," Greg declared, unconcerned. He plucked the burnt-down cigarette from Mycroft's hand, stubbed it out between his fingers, and tossed the butt into Mycroft's waste-paper basket. "Your dick is perfect and we can still work on your delivery."

 

That wasn't at all what Mycroft had wanted to say with his statement. The obvious misunderstanding and the resulting implications made Mycroft momentarily speechless - which fortunately went unnoticed, as Greg leaned over to him and sealed his mouth with a rather long, rather deep, and rather wet kiss.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_**To be continued...** _

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

My own attempt at a cover... I made the biscuits... and I took and edited the picture.

 

 


	36. Developments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation by the most wonderful SwissMiss!!!

 

OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

**Chapter 36 - Developments**

 

OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

Jacques cleared the plates from the appetiser course onto a tray and served the main course - lamb with green beans. John, meanwhile, sat at the table, his brow furrowed and his expression pinched, as he read (obvious from the monotonous movements of his index finger) the latest reports from various news sources on his smart phone.

 

Sherlock regarded his full plate with extreme distaste. He didn't feel like eating. How did John - his dark look not boding well - ever manage to wolf down portions of this size? It was truly a mystery. Once Jacques made himself scarce, John set his phone aside and turned to the next course, his appetite undiminished despite the fact that he'd put away quite a lot of the appetiser.

 

Sherlock poked at his beans disconsolately before finally pushing his plate away without so much as a single drop of the sauce touching his lips.

 

"What's wrong with you today?" John asked abruptly, yet with concern. "Do I need to jack off on it to get you to eat something?"

 

Sherlock gave the offer serious consideration. "That would be one solution," he finally replied, sighing heavily.

 

"Eat," John urged him.

 

"No, I don't want to."

 

"You didn't eat any of the salmon terrine either," John said, referring to Sherlock's virtually untouched appetiser. "And I don't fancy watching you starve yourself to death."

 

"I had breakfast," Sherlock announced triumphantly.

 

John laughed, unamused. "You took a couple of sips of tea, stuck your spoon in the jam and licked it off... That's not what we call _'eating breakfast'_ where I come from."

 

"I don't want you to go," Sherlock said.

 

"I wanted you to come with me!" John cried. "You're the one who didn't want to!"

 

With his words, John hit on a sore spot from the neverending discussion they'd been having over the past few days, and he knew it. Still, he hadn't held back from making the same remark every time he had the opportunity to do so. He might accept Sherlock's strict refusal to leave the house, but that didn't mean he had to understand it. In fact, he had less and less sympathy for this game of hide-and-seek, even though he swore he'd give Sherlock the time he needed to either put an end to his behaviour or come clean with John. But in the past few weeks, his nerves had been taxed so heavily with other things that they were no longer as hardy as they had been in the relatively quiet months before. And Sherlock was a master at riding those raw nerves in a way that John found difficult to bear given the current situation.

 

"It's not that I don't want to come with you!" Sherlock retorted. "It's that I don't want you to go! And Mike wouldn't have let me go anyway!"

 

With this counter-attack, he cleverly avoided the question concealed in John's jab. Of course there was nothing he would have liked better than to accompany John on this trip. He would have made every effort not to bother him and keep to the background, but he thought it was better to interpret Mycroft's allowance that he remain in John's custody as narrowly as possible, which meant to him that he couldn't leave John's house. Even if he would remain in John's custody on the trip - he'd rather not take the risk. He still didn't really trust Mycroft any further than he could throw him.

 

John laughed harshly. "That's true. Mike thinks you'd be too much of a distraction for me."

 

"I don't see why you need to go in the first place," Sherlock complained, returning the conversation to its starting point.

 

John sighed, irritated. He'd heard that remark once too often over the past few days. "You've asked me that for the hundredth time now."

 

"Twenty-eighth," Sherlock corrected him pedantically.

 

"And I've answered it just as many times. You should be familiar with my reasons by now."

 

"No," Sherlock contradicted him stubbornly. "You haven't answered that many times. Only twenty-seven."

 

John stared at Sherlock for several seconds. There was a cross, irritated set to his mouth, but his eyes still contained a trace of indulgence.

 

"All right, fine," he finally said, picking up his smart phone. He held it so that Sherlock could see the screen. It showed a lurid headline about a drugs bust. "That's why," John said, speaking with emphasis. "That's why I need to go. Because of this bloody Donovan. The bint is going after us. Three of my boys died in a shoot-out with the cops, and I can't even go to the funeral without ending up further in that cow's sights than I already am. She's got it in for me either way!" John had worked himself up into a fury and was now gnawing on his bottom lip. He slammed the phone back down onto the table with more force than was probably good for the device. "She must have information. Insider information. She always knows when we're planning something big... and her troops are always there. That's why I need to go, Sherlock. We need to hold a meeting and unfortunately, we can't do that in London. Things are getting too hot here."

 

"You could have a video conference," Sherlock said for the umpteenth time.

 

John gaped at him again. Then he rubbed one hand over his face. "Sherlock!" It was a warning growl. "Sherlock... there are too many of us... all the borough heads in London will be there, as well as delegates from other cities. You can't have a video conference with that many people! That's why we're going to Crieff."

 

"But why Scotland? And why Crieff, of all places?"

 

John struggled to maintain his composure, but he was able to answer in a more or less calm manner.

 

"It's far enough out of range... it's not overrun with tourists... and there's a hotel there with enough rooms free and a conference room that's big enough, and an owner who doesn't have any connection to the mob himself, but his cousin heads up our division in Edinburgh. So we can be pretty sure that the police there won't bother us."

 

"I don't want you to go!" Sherlock repeated, even though he knew that by doing so he was just making things worse. He knew John was at the end of his patience. He knew John was irritated and overtired. He knew all of that. And yet he couldn't stop pouting and prodding and whinging and acting very much like a small, unreasonable child.

 

It was like having the chicken pox. He knew that scratching made it worse... but the itching was so unbearable that he was prepared to assume even worse consequences in return for the momentary relief. Because on top of everything else, Sherlock was afraid for John. He didn't want to let him go away as long as this stupid thing with Charlie's mysterious contract wasn't straightened out. Sherlock preferred to keep John close by... in the safety of his own home, coupled with the relative safety that London offered by dint of the fact that he knew the city like the back of his hand. But he couldn't tell John that - and even if he did... John would dismiss his concerns out of hand.

 

"Sherlock..." John warned, but Sherlock ignored him.

 

"And especially not to Crieff!" Sherlock cried. "If you were at least flying to Edinburgh..."

 

"When did they fill your brain with so much crap?" John ranted. "You don't usually spout so much garbage! How are we supposed to get all the guns through security at the airport, huh?"

 

Sherlock shoved his bottom lip forward with a sullen expression, but at least he had the decency to lower his gaze sheepishly.

 

"It's more than seven hours by car from London to Crieff... If you went by plane... you wouldn't be gone as long."

 

John leaned his head back and took a deep breath. "Three nights!" he announced to the ceiling. "Three nights, Sherlock." He caught Sherlock's eye and held it.

 

"That's precisely three nights too many," Sherlock murmured in a small voice.

 

John fixed Sherlock with a steely gaze for several minutes, his lips pressed firmly together. Not a word was said, not a sound was heard, until Sherlock began to feel rather uncomfortable and shifted around in his chair nervously. He'd finally found the straw that would break the camel's back. His heart beat harder in his chest, and his head felt cold and empty. What would John do now? Would he punish him? Would he box his ears again? Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut briefly to drive away the memory of that moment. But when John spoke, Sherlock opened them again so he could stare at him, his eyes wide with shock.

 

"Sherlock, my patience is at an end," John declared with deathly calm, pushed his chair back and stood up.

 

Sherlock's throat felt parched. His heartbeat thudded through his entire body. Was the unthinkable about to happen? Had John finally had enough of him? Was he going to... send him away? His heart clenched, stuttered, fell out of rhythm and then picked up the beat in an ominous monotone.

 

John continued to watch him with a cold, impassive stare, but his mouth lost some of its hardness when he spoke again: "But since I … sympathise with the reasons for your incorrigible behaviour up to a certain point..."

 

Sherlock hung almost desperately on John's every word, but he didn't complete his sentence. Instead, he walked around the table and held out his hand to Sherlock.

 

"Come on."

 

"Where?" Sherlock asked in a daze, even as he trustingly slid his fingers into John's hand without giving it a second thought.

 

"The bedroom," John said with a wolfish grin. "I'm going to make sure you think of me every single second of the next four days and three nights."

 

"Are you going to punish me?" Sherlock heard himself ask in a voice he didn't recognise as his own.

 

John gave him a look that was both heated and icy.

 

"I'm going to _hurt_ you," he explained calmly. "Knowing you, you'll hardly think it's a punishment - but it should at least lessen the pain of being separated a bit... even if it makes something else hurt."

 

Sherlock's pulse was still throbbing through his entire body, but now warmth flowed into his limbs once again, he could breathe more freely, and he was sure that John wasn't going to send him away... might never send him away, in fact. If Sherlock's behaviour over the last few days wasn't enough to make John kick him out of the house, then there probably wasn't anything Sherlock could do or say - no matter how he said it - that would put John off enough that he would consider breaking things off. Yes - John was angry at him right now. Furious, in fact. But Sherlock still trusted him. John was going to punish him - or at least he was going to try. Sherlock didn't know whether he would find John's actions arousing, given his own agitated state. But that was all right, in a certain way. He knew himself that he'd been impossible, and so it was easy for him to see that a punishment was justified. He wasn't worried about John's obvious annoyance either. Even if John did let himself get a bit out of hand, Sherlock could always put an end to it. In many ways, he was physically superior to John, and he would utilise that superiority without giving it a second thought, should the need arise. If John tied him up, on the other hand... Sherlock weighed the various possibilities and came to the conclusion that not even ropes would pose too much of an obstacle to putting up a successful defence. And he had a safeword he could use at any time.

 

But the closer they got to the bedroom, the more his excitement and anticipation overshadowed Sherlock's rational considerations, and he wondered, his heart in his throat, what John had in store for him.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

A short while later, Sherlock was naked and kneeling on the bed the way John had told him to. His legs spread, elbows and forehead on the mattress, his hands folded behind his neck, while John let the beloved riding crop dance on his backside.

 

The sheets under his face were damp with the spit seeping out of his mouth as he gasped for air.

 

The first dozen or so slaps had rained down angrily on Sherlock's cold skin. It had been painful, yet bearable, and Sherlock hadn't been tempted even once to rise up to defend himself or use his safeword. Still, the strength with which the blows had been delivered drove tears to his eyes, and he bit into the sheets with his teeth. The speed at which the individual blows came, one after another with barely a pause between, had completely taken his breath away and made it virtually impossible to cry out to give vent to his pain.

 

John had fully redeemed his promise to hurt him. It was a punishment entirely devoid of a sensual component, and it didn't give Sherlock any time to become aroused. But he accepted the pain, endured it, because he firmly believed he deserved it and he knew he'd feel better the moment it was over. He would be purified and John would have forgiven him. The thought filled him with a peculiar calm and made it possible for him to stick it out in this uncomfortable position.

 

After those first few merciless blows, John let off and Sherlock was finally able to take a deep breath. He sucked the air greedily into his lungs, tried to relax, tried to break out of the unhappy pattern of stuttering, panting breaths that didn't drag enough oxygen into his body and which brought with them the risk of hyperventilation; tried to steel himself for whatever John was going to do next.

 

When nothing happened, Sherlock became aware of the infinite stillness in the room. The only thing to be heard was the heavy breathing of the two men.

 

"Sherlock..." John said, his voice raw. "You deserved that. You know you deserved that."

 

It sounded like a justification to Sherlock. Surprised and no less confused, Sherlock perked his ears. Was John's conscience bothering him? Was he going to back down? Anything but that! Sherlock didn't want an apology, he didn't want to be handled with kid gloves! He also didn't want political correctness. He needed someone who showed him his limits, someone who was willing to take him on. Someone who could lay down a merciless hard line, someone who made him suffer and enjoy that suffering. And then... when Sherlock had suffered enough and enjoyed it enough... when he'd taken everything... when he'd given everything... given everything he was capable of and more... then... and only then... he needed two strong arms to catch him and hold him and care for him.

 

"God... your skin... covered in welts," John rasped, his voice rough and halting.

 

Sherlock relaxed a bit more. The arousal was clearly audible in John's words. An inference that was confirmed by a faint sound - the friction of skin against cloth. John must be stroking himself through his trousers. A relieved grin played at the corners of Sherlock's mouth, but John's very next words disquieted him again.

 

"I shouldn't have..." John murmured hesitantly. It sounded as if guilt and lust were trying to pull him in two different directions, and John didn't know which path to take. "That wasn't acceptable..."

 

Sherlock feverishly tried to think of a way to assuage John's guilty conscience and stop him from laying the riding crop aside. Sherlock's entire being was gasping for the scene to continue... he needed it almost as badly as he needed air to breathe... needed John's strictness, not his... _understanding_ or whatever idiotic thing was going through John's head at the moment.

 

"No, John!" Sherlock cried out as loudly and vehemently as was possible for him in his current position. John actually did fall silent, but Sherlock still had no idea what he should say until the perfect thing occurred to him.

 

" _Please_ , John," he said in a gentle voice. "It's fine. It's all fine. _Please_ \- go on. Just go on."

 

Sherlock closed his eyes and revelled in the astonishing, overwhelming peace and lightness of being which that one word triggered in him. So that's how easy it was to say that word... how incredibly effortlessly it had fallen from his lips... if he'd known that that single word would give him such a deep sense of satisfaction and inner calm... why had he always fought against it so hard? Sherlock didn't know anymore.

 

Behind him, John had become very still, yet the stillness didn't make Sherlock feel uneasy anymore. He simply knew he'd done the right thing - said the right thing... at the right moment.

 

"Yes," John said, as if everything had now been decided, and brought the riding crop down on Sherlock's backside with a loud crack.

 

And for the first time in his life, it seemed to Sherlock that everything would work out for the best. That all of the puzzle pieces would find their rightful place of their own accord to create a complete picture. A perfect picture... without any gaps... without any blemishes.

 

The strokes that John now distributed clearly had the sole purpose of arousing Sherlock. They weren't any less strong or less painful, but the intent behind each one was completely different, and the difference didn't escape Sherlock for one second. There were pauses. Pauses for Sherlock to savour the agony, work through the pain and enjoy it. The blows no longer came down willy-nilly, but were well-aimed and placed with care. John's skill with the riding crop was unequalled and had never been shown to better advantage than right at that moment.

 

He performed on Sherlock's body with the riding crop with a virtuosity equal to that which Sherlock achieved with his bow on his violin. John caressed and chastised, incited and dampened, awakened and destroyed... Sherlock's body stretched and extended, and his arse - which was already burning like fire from the previous blows - arched hungrily toward the crop. His maltreated skin welcomed the painful kisses... he felt the rasp of the leather licking his skin like the hot tongue of a lover, felt the pain blazing right under the surface of his skin until the heat and flame moved into his crotch and his cock stiffened.

 

Sherlock's ardent moans were muffled by the mattress even as his legs spread further apart as if of their own accord.

 

"You want it, eh?" he heard John ask breathlessly. "You really want everything, don't you?"

 

"Yes, John!"

 

"God..." John wheezed. He sounded enraptured, greedy, and overcome with emotion all at the same time. "You don't even know what I... God... If you could see yourself..."

 

"I don't care... John... no matter what... everything... anything you want," Sherlock stammered into the mattress, hoping that John heard him.

 

"Okay." He heard John swallow. Then he repeated: "Okay." Gruffer this time. "You're going to think of me... every - single - second." He took a deep breath and let it go. When he spoke again, his voice had taken on a hard, strict tone. "Hands behind you. Spread your arse for me."

 

Sherlock panted, his fingers shaking as he moved them from their position at the back of his neck. A shiver ran through his entire body as he shifted his weight to his shoulders. His backside automatically lifted higher into the air. His hands trembled, slipped down his sweat-damp thighs, touched his inflamed skin for the first time, felt the damage the riding crop had caused. His swollen penis twitched and throbbed as fresh reports of pain shot through his body in response to his own touches. He slipped with his hands on the sweaty skin and relaxed his grip involuntarily.

 

"Oh God..." Sherlock groaned.

 

"You have to really get in there," John commanded him with a hint of derision. "Come on now. It can't be that difficult."

 

Sherlock swallowed hard. Lust, pain, and shame inflamed his desire and his arousal even further. He dug his fingers resolutely into his sensitive flesh and pulled his arse cheeks apart. He whimpered when he fancied he could feel John's eyes directed at his most intimate spot, which he was now offering up so wantonly.

 

"Good," John praised him throatily, and Sherlock glowed with joy at the approval. "Very good... You know what's coming now?"

 

Sherlock let out a soft, inarticulate sob. Yes, he knew what was coming. John was going to bring the riding crop down on _that_ spot with unerring accuracy.

 

"Sherlock?" It was a demand, a question, and there was hesitance. "Sherlock... your safeword?"

 

"Yes... no..." Sherlock sobbed, finally deciding on a beseeching " _Please_!"

 

For a moment, that same surreal stillness filled the room once more.

 

"Three strokes," John said roughly. "Three times, Sherlock. Did you hear me? Then you can do whatever you want with your hands and your legs... but during those three strokes, you need to keep still. Completely still. Have you understood?"

 

"Yes... yes, John," Sherlock replied with some effort.

 

Three blows... right on his hole... right on the soft, sensitive skin of his sphincter... right on the muscle, which was already pulsing and fluttering... It was going to be hell... and Sherlock could barely wait. Had he gone completely round the bend? With an ecstatic moan, he dug his fingers even deeper into his wounded flesh, enjoying the lust-filled buzz the action released in his brain.

 

He vaguely registered John counting.

 

"Three - two - one -"

 

The brief swish of the riding crop through the air, the blow, the muted slap of leather on skin, the contraction, the sensation of cold - which only lasted for a fraction of a second - and then...

 

" AAAAHHHHHHHHHH!"

 

A hand in his hair. John's hand. Murmured words. Comforting. Calming. Ecstasy, exploding suddenly in his body in the aftermath of the pain.

 

"Are you coming?" he heard John ask through the drone in his ears. Concerned. Aroused.

 

He didn't know. He was probably dribbling again like a leaky faucet. He couldn't think straight anymore. Like that time... the first time John had...

 

Then he heard John's countdown again.

 

So soon? He wasn't ready...

 

"Three - two - one -"

 

John hit the spot once again with implacable accuracy, and once again Sherlock screamed out his rapture and his agony to the world. There was a hand in his hair again... a mouth on his shoulder... kisses... and then the explosion of desire. Sherlock felt the ring of muscle around his hole open and close up again... and again... like a cramp... every contraction sending a fresh wave of lust through his body. The pain was nothing more than a side effect of his concupiscence. One last tremor shuddered through his body, and then the endorphins which virtually flooded his bloodstream effected a sensation of relaxation he'd never experienced before. Everything in him, every part of him, became loose and light and floaty.

 

"Again?" John's query sounded in his ear.

 

" _Please_..." Sherlock whispered, stretching luxuriantly.

 

"Three - two - one -" John counted down one last time and struck.

 

A brief flare of pain - a brief crack … a feeling of neverending desire.

 

"Fuck me!" Sherlock rasped, let go of his arse and held himself up with his hands on the mattress again. Offered himself in an unmistakeable manner.

 

"Anything you want," John whispered without a moment's hesitation, and less than a minute later he penetrated Sherlock with two cold, slick fingers.

 

They went in so easily, and Sherlock pressed back into the fingers, welcomed them and silently begged for more.

 

"You're incredible..." John muttered as a third finger joined the first two.

 

Relief flowed through Sherlock, and a long, drawn-out moan came from his lips. Arousal and desire raged in him like a forest fire, with John the only one possessing the ability to quench it. But before that happened, Sherlock wanted to burn. Burn like the sun.

 

"That's enough... Give it to me... give me your cock... give it to me now!"

 

Lips smiling against his shoulder. "And there are the demands again..." John breathed out onto his skin, but it sounded neither disappointed nor angry.

 

The fingers pulled out and Sherlock could barely stand the sudden emptiness. He heard clothing rustling behind him, a zip being opened, shoes thumping onto the floor... and then... finally... John's cool skin cosying up to his hot, sweaty body. Cool fingers sliding across his chest, pinching his stiff nipples until he gasped for air, cool lips kissing the back of his neck and a hot erection pressing against his incandescent backside, rubbing over his opening.

 

It hurt. It burnt. Yet all of that faded into the background when John smeared lubricant gel onto his penis and drove into him with an agonisingly slow push, filling the emptiness - that awful emptiness which consumed everything else.

 

"So soft... so hot..." John whispered to him breathlessly. "So fantastic..."

 

His abused hole twitched, fought back, cramped up from the pain, yet still greedily took the intruder in. The perspiration sizzled on his skin, smarted in the welts on his arse, and Sherlock held his breath in bliss. Only to gasp for air again when John's penis - finally, finally! - stimulated his prostate. All but deaf and blind with arousal, Sherlock abandoned himself completely to John's deep, hard thrusts and cool hands. John's hands, which roved ceaselessly and with exquisite tenderness over his chest. A tenderness that was in stark contrast to the almost brutal rhythm with which he pounded into Sherlock.

 

Sherlock felt like he was a plaything of his own lust and John's desire, with no will of his own, felt that sweet, incomparable, destructive urge rising in him.

 

"John..." he panted. "John... I'm going to come..."

 

"Not yet," John ordered him sternly. "Not yet..."

 

"Oh God... John... I … I can't," Sherlock begged. The pressure and the delicious pull in his genitals was getting stronger with every stroke... with every second...

 

"Wait..." John said, and now it sounded more like a plea than a command. "I want to see your face when you come." John's arms wrapped around his chest and pulled him up until he couldn't hold himself up on the mattress with his hands anymore and was supported only by John.

 

And suddenly, there was only John... John inside him... John around him... John's scent enveloped Sherlock, and all he could hear was John's heavy breathing. John filled and permeated him, surrounded and covered him, and his embrace became a protective cocoon for Sherlock... a cocoon that enclosed Sherlock... where he could grow and mature and develop the way he'd always wanted and hoped to... until the day when the process was complete and he would be able to leave the cocoon and present himself to John the way he'd always dreamed of. Not as the caterpillar he was now, but as the butterfly that had always slumbered inside him, and which never would have been able to unfurl its wings and be itself without John.

 

After that metamorphosis... he would be worthy... not just of respect, but maybe... maybe even... of love.

 

"Look in the mirror, Sherlock!" John rasped into his ear. "I want to see you... I want to see your face."

 

"Where..." Sherlock whispered, dazed, and opened his eyes.

 

"To the right..." John helped him out, holding him even more firmly in his arms. "The mirror's a bit more to the right."

 

Sherlock turned his head in the specified direction. John's thrusts had become more gentle and slower due to the change in position, but Sherlock could feel John's hard cock even more intensely inside him. Still, the urge to explode immediately and dissolve into thousands of little pieces had receded somewhat. The mirror wasn't in the best position - in other words, John hadn't planned this, instead following a sudden impulse - but when he turned his head just a bit further he could see their reflections quite well in the smooth surface.

 

"So beautiful... so gorgeous... you're so gorgeous, Sherlock..." John whispered and kissed his neck.

 

The dark-haired man undulating in pleasure there in the mirror beneath John's kisses and thrusts was not only beautiful... he was breathtaking.

 

‘ _That's me?’_ Sherlock thought by himself, a bit confused as well as startled.

 

"Look at me..." John said, and Sherlock turned his attention obediently to John's reflection in the mirror.

 

What he saw in John's face took his breath away.

 

John's eyes appeared to be almost black at that distance, his face was glowing, and the look he was giving Sherlock in the mirror... that look... _God... that look_...

 

Was it the deceptive lighting of the summer twilight? Was it just wishful thinking on Sherlock's part? Was it a mirage of light and shadow? Was he the victim of an optical illusion? Or had John's gaze really rested on him lovingly for the bat of an eyelash? On _him_? Sherlock didn't know. He realised at that moment, heartsore, that he had no basis for comparison. No one had ever given him a look filled with love before. Lust... yes... often enough. But love?

 

Sherlock's heart pounded in his chest. He could barely breathe. John's fingers grasped his painfully swollen erection, and then there was no going back. Sherlock closed his eyes, let go... and fell headlong into the vortex of a blindingly dark climax... with John's embrace his only anchor.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

"Ye lovers of the picturesque, if ye wish to drown your grief, Take my advice, and visit the ancient town of Crieff," Sherlock murmured sleepily into John's bare chest. He lay half on top of John in order to spare his sore behind, and John was only too happy to let him.

 

John blinked down at Sherlock in surprise and amusement.

 

"There's a poem about Crieff?"

 

"A fantastically bad one, in fact," Sherlock yawned. "By William McGonagall... He can claim for himself the dubious distinction of being the worst poet of the English language... but at the same time he's also the best-known Scottish poet... right after Robert Burns."

 

"How do you even know something like that?" John asked with a lopsided smile.

 

"I once had a teacher with astonishingly poor taste..." Sherlock was about to drop off to sleep when John's voice brought him back.

 

"Sherlock?"

 

"Hmm?"

 

"It's only three nights... but..."

 

"Hmm?"

 

John opened his mouth only to close it again. Why couldn't he manage to admit that he was going to miss Sherlock? Terribly, in fact?

 

"Nothing..." John finally said, hating himself for it. "Wake me up if your arse hurts too much. I can put some more cream on it."

 

"Thank you," Sherlock murmured and fell asleep. The past few nerve-wracking days had demanded their tribute.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

"Hi," Greg said once he was inside Mycroft's office.

 

"Gregory," Mycroft replied when he saw Greg suddenly standing in front of him.

 

It was a disconcerting moment. The clock on the wall said it was lunchtime, and his secretary was sitting outside the door. Mycroft's eyes automatically slid down to Greg's lips. Lips that were pulled back in a knowing smile. Mycroft stood up, came out from behind his desk, and held out his hand.

 

Greg stared down at it for a moment, somewhat bewildered, then gave Mycroft an understanding - if disappointed - look, moistened his lips with his tongue and then took the proffered hand.

 

Neither of the two men put an end to the gesture of greeting, such that they were still holding hands when Mycroft finally said, "What brings you here, Detective Inspector?"

 

"I wanted to see you, Mycroft."

 

Mycroft looked down at their hands. Not just to reassure himself that reality actually did align with what his sense of touch was telling him, but also to hide the self-satisfied expression that had come to his face following Greg's words. He hadn't been sure, following their first... moment of intimacy... what kind of dynamic would rule their _interactions_ from that point forward, should they choose to continue them. Greg's demanding behaviour that night had thrown him off, and although it hadn't been an entirely unpleasant experience to carry out those kinds of instructions, Mycroft did rather tend to see himself in the role of the one giving the orders. That's what he was used to, and he wanted to keep it that way.

 

Greg's words had now confirmed to him that he'd retain the upper hand - Greg had all but presented it to him on a silver tray by admitting he couldn't stand to be away from him one moment longer.

 

To be sure - Mycroft himself had been feverishly casting about for a halfway credible excuse to have Greg over again... but Greg's threshold for suffering was apparently not as high as Mycroft's, and he was - not to put too fine a point on it - the first one to cave.

 

"Is that right?" Mycroft said lightly, altering his grip on Greg's hand so that he could stroke his index and middle fingers over the inside of Greg's wrist.

 

Greg bit down on his lip and made a muffled sound. Half moan, half whimper. Mycroft was quite pleased.

 

"Yes," Greg answered Mycroft's question.

 

Mycroft let go of Greg's hand.

 

"Can I offer you a cup of tea?"

 

"You could offer me something else entirely," Greg said in a low voice as he walked past him to the chair he always sat on when he was in Mycroft's office. "But as that's not... on the programme at the moment, I'd love a cup of tea. Thank you."

 

Silence reigned while Mycroft prepared two cups of tea. Only when Mycroft had added a lump of sugar and a spot of milk to Greg's tea and passed him the cup did he ask, "Is there anything new?"

 

Greg blew on his tea to cool it off a bit. "I spoke to Sally Donovan."

 

Mycroft nodded attentively.

 

"We had a meeting and... it just so happened that I ended up sitting next to her," Greg went on, grinning. "I flirted with her a bit."

 

"Oh?" Mycroft said and raised one eyebrow. "Was that smart?"

 

Greg's grin widened. "Very smart, in fact. But... Might it be that someone's jealous?"

 

"Don't be ridiculous," Mycroft retorted brusquely, noting to his own great annoyance that it now really did look as if he were jealous.

 

"At any rate," Greg continued, "I tried to pick her brain a bit... you know, the kinds of thing you ask when you flirt... where she's from, what her hobbies are, where her family lives..." Greg took a sip of his tea.

 

Mycroft waited. And waited. And waited. But Greg didn't say anything else. Finally, he lost his patience.

 

"Well?" he asked insistently.

 

"Oh... right..." Greg said with a bright smile, playing at being absent-minded. But then he turned serious. "All jokes aside. I didn't get much out of her at all, unfortunately. She was born in Northern Ireland and she's single. And when I say _'single'_ , I do mean single. She hasn't got any family, no friends, no pets, no hobbies... at least none she wanted to tell me about. Then I took a look at her file."

 

"For shame, Inspector," Mycroft said with a smirk.

 

"Yes, you're going to end up corrupting me completely," Greg conceded with a lopsided grin. "Someone in personnel owed me a favour and let me take a peek over his shoulder when he happened to be checking something in her file. She grew up in an orphanage. But that's pretty much the only interesting thing about her."

 

Mycroft sighed. "Go ahead, ask... before you choke on it."

 

Greg set his teacup down on Mycroft's desk. "What's going on here? What's really going on? And this time I don't want to hear any brush-offs anymore."

 

Mycroft lowered his eyes before looking up again. "It's a long story."

 

"I've got time," Greg said with resolve.

 

"Gregory..."

 

"I know something's crooked here. With you, with Doc Watson, with that Sigerson, with your brother, with Dimmock, with Donovan... I just know it! And Donovan knows something. The way she's going after the mob isn't normal. She's already chalked up two successful operations! Honestly, now - where Dimmock was doing too little, she's doing too much. I don't get it! Donovan must have an informant. And I don't understand how you can just sit there the whole time not doing anything."

 

"What precisely should I do, in your opinion?" Mycroft retorted with a trace of arrogance.

 

"I... I don't know," Greg conceded reluctantly. "But for a start, it'd be nice if you'd trust me."

 

Mycroft lowered his eyes again and plucked an imaginary speck of lint from his trouser leg.

 

Trust... How did one trust another person? He didn't know. How did Doc Watson do it? How had he managed to place his trust in Mycroft's brother... no, _half_ -brother? Mycroft had relied on no one but himself for decades now. After his father had left … and then returned some time later, and Mummy had forgiven him and even welcomed Sherlock - it had become clear to Mycroft by that point that other people weren't to be trusted. They changed their minds much too often. Of course it was desirable for others to trust _him_ , but that was generally an extremely unreliable proposition as well. It was much better when one had the proper means at one's disposal to guarantee a certain consistency in others.

 

But Greg... Greg had made it clear that he wasn't susceptible to blackmail. Greg was... a man of integrity. Would he be able to trust Greg? And if so - did he even want to? Did he want to put himself in such a vulnerable situation?

 

"It's a high delicate affair..." Mycroft explained haltingly. "An affair in which my own position is... not entirely clear to me. At least not anymore, now that new players have entered the playing field."

 

"New players?" Greg sat up and listened more attentively. "Plural?"

 

Mycroft nodded.

 

"So Donovan and... who else?" Greg asked.

 

"I don't know," Mycroft openly admitted. "No one knows yet."

 

Greg leaned forward in his chair. "I'm all ears..."

 

Mycroft shook his head. "This is neither the time nor the place."

 

Greg dropped his head. "Okay," he said then and looked up again. "Okay - we'll play by your rules." He stood up and let one finger trail across the back of Mycroft's hand. "Just one more thing … How careful do we have to be?"

 

They held each other's gaze, both knowing that they weren't talking about Donovan or any other sinister plots now.

 

"Very careful," Mycroft answered soberly.

 

Greg nodded.

 

"That's what I thought," he said with a small sigh. "You know how to reach me."

 

Then he left.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_**To be continued...** _

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

In addition to the reasons given by John in the chapter, I chose Crieff as the town for the meeting because Benedict Cumberbatch plays a character named "Captain Martin Crieff" in the radio series "Cabin Pressure".

 

Information about Crieff:

<http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Crieff>

And here's the full text of the poem that Sherlock quotes in this chapter:

<http://www.mcgonagall-online.org.uk/gems/beautiful-crieff>

Some information about William Topaz McGonagall:

<http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_McGonagall>

 

Aaaaaannnnnd: PICS!

<http://lorelei-lee.tumblr.com/post/130191427179/teaser-for-the-next-chapter-of-deflowered>

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And on top of everything... today is my wedding anniversary. According to the internet it's the "opal" wedding in Germany... but wiki tells me in every english speaking country "brass" or "nickel" are the traditional gifts for this wedding and the anniversary itself has no special name.  
> Now... are there any detectives among my readers?   
> For how long am I married? *gg*


	37. In the Eye of the Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First things first - my everlasting thanks go to SwissMiss for her wonderful translation.  
> Then... everyone who guessed 21 years for my wedding anniversary... you're right!!! And thanks to all the good wishes and congratulations.  
> By the way... I did the maths and I came to the conclusion that you will receive the last chapter on December the 21st. I think that will be a nice (early) X-mas present for you.  
> And just to let you know... during the week I always post those pic-sets on my tumblr. Or some small part of the new chapter as a teaser. No need to follow me. Just check here:  
> http://lorelei-lee.tumblr.com/search/deflowered+director's+cut

 

**Chapter 37 - In the Eye of the Storm**

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

The Highland Games had taken place in Crieff two weeks earlier. Afterwards, the tourists had left and the town had returned to its usual easygoing pace.

 

However, a meeting had just ended in one of the hotels that was anything but easygoing, and had cost John Watson in particular quite a lot of nerves.

 

John entered his spacious hotel room, followed by Mike Stamford, and booted the first chair he saw across the room with a furious kick.

 

"John..." Mike reprimanded him gently.

 

"You heard it too!" John roared. "You were there just now!"

 

"No one said directly that..."

 

"No, of course not," John growled. "No one said anything openly, but they all made it clear with their more or less vague allusions." John tore open the door of the minibar and stared at the neatly arranged selection of bottles.

 

"You'd do better with a chamomile tea at the moment," Mike advised him. "I think I have some valerian drops in my bag."

 

John goggled at him a bit before barking out a brief laugh. He closed the minibar again and ran a hand through his hair.

 

"They're all wondering whether I shot Albright because he made rude comments about Sherlock."

 

"And not just the one time, either..." Mike mused. "At least no one said it out loud. And you're really not known for defending the honour of your flings."

 

"Sherlock's not a fling," John contradicted him, laying special emphasis on his words.

 

Mike suppressed a smirk. He would have liked to ask what Sherlock was, if not a fling, but he decided to keep his mouth shut. It would probably just make John angry again. Like the time he'd thought Mike was insinuating that John was in love with Sherlock.

 

"It'll all work out," Mike declared optimistically. "You'll get the thing with Moran signed off on tomorrow and then you can all figure out how to get Donovan under control."

 

John nodded. "Maybe Mycroft Holmes could... I don't know... make her life difficult by cutting her budget somewhere."

 

Mike patted him on the shoulder. "We've taken care of much bigger problems before. Are you coming down to the restaurant? I've heard things about the wild pheasant..."

 

"No." John waved him off. "I'll have room service bring something up. Later though. I need to make a call first."

 

"Say hi to Sherlock from me," Mike said with a knowing smile.

 

"I'm not ringing Sherlock!" John shouted after his friend, dialling the number of Sherlock's mobile as soon as the door closed behind Mike. Before John had left, he'd tried to convince Sherlock to finally use the telephone John had bought him months ago, and to always keep it with him.

 

"John?" the eager inquiry surged out of the speaker, and John's eyes fell shut at the sound of Sherlock's deep voice.

 

"I miss you," John said before he could think about it, holding his breath as soon as he realised what he'd just said. If Sherlock laughed... then... he'd have to kill him. No two ways about it. No one laughed at John Watson and got away with it. Although... did he really have it in him to shoot Sherlock? Probably not. Strange... he hadn't had a problem doing it to Sherlock's predecessor.

 

A soft, pleased, almost relieved sigh sounded before Sherlock added in a very small voice: "I miss you too."

 

John felt his knees go weak, and sat down on the bed. The barely audible sigh had revealed even more than Sherlock's admission. A warm feeling spread through his abdomen. He'd managed once again to say exactly the right thing to Sherlock, purely on instinct. It was a shame it didn't happen more often... because if he did and said the right things often enough, then... Sherlock might finally trust him completely and confess everything.

 

"Have you been good?" John asked, recalling with satisfaction the fire in Sherlock's eyes when John had slapped him on his - still extremely sensitive - backside before he left.

 

"You didn't say I wasn't allowed to..." Sherlock replied, and John wondered for a moment why Sherlock was breathing so hard.

 

But his bewilderment lasted only a second or so before some very tempting images began forming in his head.

 

"How long have you been touching yourself?" he asked with playful sternness, but instead of the meek answer he'd half been hoping for, John was confronted with a reproach.

 

"I was expecting you to call much earlier!"

 

"I never said I'd call you at all!" John countered with a laugh.

 

"Oh, _please_ ," Sherlock said on the other end of the line, drawing the word out - the same word which did the most marvellous things to John when spoken with a completely different intonation in a completely different context.

 

When Sherlock had said _'please'_ to him last night and meant it for the first time ever... it had touched John more deeply than he'd ever thought possible. It had been a goddamned gift - the most wonderful thing he'd ever received. He recalled the doubts which had suddenly come over him along with the scruples, but also the longing which that dark desire had triggered in him at the sight of Sherlock's excoriated body. But Sherlock's _'please'_ had made everything right again, had brought him back round and enabled him to create a scene that was pleasurable for everyone involved. His heart beat faster, his belly felt warm, and he stared dreamily off into space... God... Sherlock's face when he'd come...

 

Sherlock kept talking, but John didn't register anything more than a dull buzz.

 

And so he asked, "What?" when he finally succeeded in shaking off the titillating memories.

 

Sherlock took a deep breath and repeated his remark with a rare show of patience. "I said: as if you'd let a chance at phone sex pass you by."

 

"Phone sex?" John asked, bemused. "Is that what we're doing?"

 

"It's what I planned, at any rate..."

 

"Then don't let me stand in the way," John answered generously.

 

"Oh, thank you so much, kind sir," Sherlock mocked, and John could virtually hear him rolling his eyes.

 

"Just because I'm not there doesn't mean I'm going to let you talk like that to me, understand?" John said sharply.

 

"Yes, John," Sherlock whispered right away, yet couldn't stop himself from continuing to provoke John. "But... what are you going to do about it?"

 

"Easy..." John said, enjoying himself. "I'm going to get that fire in your arse going again." When the only response was more breathing, John asked, "Where are you right now?"

 

"Bedroom. Bed," Sherlock answered haltingly.

 

"Good. Go to the cupboard and get out the string of anal beads." Quick, muted steps on bare feet followed. "Not the red ones... the black ones."

 

Sherlock inhaled sharply, and John grinned. The black beads were significantly bigger than the red ones. The first two or three beads on the string had a rather modest circumference, but the rest of them were comparable in size to ping-pong balls. They presented a certain challenge even under normal circumstances, but now... with Sherlock's sphincter most certainly still tender and sore... John licked his lips. It was going to be hell, and Sherlock was going to love every single second and every single inch of it.

 

"Can't muster up any more enthusiasm?" John asked coolly when the silence on the other end of the line continued. "I could tell you to get the menthol gel or the ginger oil..."

 

A throaty moan sounded, followed by a stammered "The black beads. I … I have them."

 

Oh, John knew precisely what was going on in Sherlock's clever little head. On the one hand, he was all but begging for a firmer hand, a more extreme experience, and wanted to be disobedient so John would order him to use the ginger and menthol... on the other hand, he was also clear-headed enough not to want to take any more risks with his raw flesh and do himself any unnecessary damage.

 

John was proud of him. As recently as a couple of weeks ago, Sherlock would have reached for the ginger without hesitation, without a thought as to the consequences. But now he paid much better attention to his body than he used to. Aside from that, John had never really intended to give that order, even if he did love suggesting certain things to Sherlock and feasting on his reactions.

 

"Good," John praised him. "As a reward, you can take the Vaseline. And now get back on the bed."

 

As soon as Sherlock had complied with John's additional instructions (at least John assumed he had - he couldn't check, of course) and was lying on the bed with his legs bent at the knees and Vaseline smeared in and around his opening ( _'only use two fingers, Sherlock!_ '), John made himself comfortable on his bed. He opened his trousers and pushed them down to his knees. His stiff penis was outlined clearly in his briefs. He was gratified to hear Sherlock's stuttering breaths and faint whimpers. He rubbed the damp material of his pants, going at a leisurely pace.

 

"John... it... burns..." Sherlock stammered with some effort.

 

John could picture it vividly, and his penis twitched with excitement. "Feels good, doesn't it?" he replied with a fiendish grin, which Sherlock couldn't see, unfortunately.

 

A shuddering intake of breath, then: "Yessss..."

 

"Keep going... now take three fingers..." John rasped out his new instructions to Sherlock. "I'm just making sure you think of me as often tomorrow as you did today."

 

"Mmmmhhh... Thank you, John..."

 

There was no sarcasm to be heard in Sherlock's voice, and a gentle glow seeped into John's body, gathering in his groin.

 

"Does it still burn?" he asked softly.

 

"Better... it's better now... Don't you want to know how hard I am? How wet?"

 

John swallowed hard and pushed against his own erection with the heels of his hands. Desire flowed out into his extremities, and he moaned faintly.

 

Sherlock interpreted John's silence and moans as an encouragement.

 

"My stomach is already slick... I'm sure you can figure out why," Sherlock went on in a rough voice. "I'm so... so hard... and my fingers... I wish it were your... your fingers stretching me... opening... aaaaahhhh... Can I... can I touch myself? Just a bit..."

 

"No... not yet," John said hoarsely. _Those images... those images in his head_... He pulled down his pants and did exactly what he'd just forbidden Sherlock to do: he started to stroke himself. "Now take the beads... the first three... do it as quick as you can... if I know you at all, you're already desperate for it and well enough prepared. No reason to draw it out." He waited, holding his breath, listening to the groan, the guttural rasp, the sigh, the soft cry testifying to some pain, yes, but even more arousal.

 

"Done," Sherlock reported after a while, only to immediately ask in an eager tone: "And now?"

 

John had to bite back a laugh. "Tell me how it feels."

 

"Like it's too little," came the prompt reply. "Can I touch myself now?"

 

"No!" John repeated even more emphatically. He was afraid his choked back laughter was coming through. "So it's not enough for you yet? All right, get to work on the next beads. Nice and slow. One after the other. Count along with each one. I want to know how you're coming along. Once you have all the beads inside... then... and only then... you can toss off and come. Okay?"

 

"Yes, John," Sherlock whispered, immediately followed by: "One."

 

"Someone's gagging for it..." John drawled. He took a moment to consider how he could torture his counterpart a bit more... there were three small beads and four larger ones on the string. At the rate Sherlock was going, the fun would be over much too soon. Unless... John's face lit up as a rather evil idea occurred to him.

 

When Sherlock got to _'three'_ , John commanded him sharply: "Stop!"

 

"What?" Sherlock squeaked. "Why? I- I did everything precisely as you..."

 

"Do it again," John said calmly.

 

"Again?" Sherlock echoed, not understanding his meaning.

 

"Take the third bead out and put it in again. Nice and slow," John explained in a soft voice.

 

"Oh God..." Sherlock groaned. "All right... I'm taking it... aaaahhhh... Oh God... John! I... I'm..."

 

"If you go off now..." John warned him.

 

"No, no," Sherlock assured him, panic-stricken. "I... have it... under control..." He was breathing hard. "Ooo...kay. It's out." The relief was clearly audible in his voice.

 

"Good," John said as if he didn't care and stroked his own sensitive glans with the tips of his fingers. It felt incredibly good. Despite the distance, Sherlock was utterly at his mercy. It was a heady feeling. Warm pearls of pre-come welled up from his heated penis. John bit down on his lips. "And now... put it back in... nice and slow, and see if you can stop the bead at the widest point."

 

"Stop?"

 

"Yeah, I want you to enjoy the stretch at the widest part a little longer..." John answered him in a way that sounded almost innocent, even as the lusty pull in his loins became stronger.

 

Sherlock swallowed hard.

 

"Yes...I... I've understood. I'm pushing it back... in... I... aaahhh... I... Oh."

 

"Oh?" John prompted.

 

"It just... slipped in," Sherlock admitted, downcast.

 

"That's not good," John reprimanded him. "But it's all right... experts aren't made overnight. You'll just have to do it again."

 

"Again?!"

 

"Yes, Sherlock," John hissed forcefully. "Again. Pull it back out and try again. You're going to keep at it until you can hold that bead for at least two seconds in your greedy hole without it slipping all the way in or popping back out."

 

"Yes," Sherlock whispered in a combination of meekness, desperation, and arousal.

 

John didn't bother trying to hold back his lust-filled moan and stroked his testicles in order to give his throbbing penis a little break. His own climax would have to wait too... would have to be delayed. He had to take care of Sherlock first. Then... and only then... would he let himself go completely.

 

John made Sherlock go through the minor torture five times. No intake of breath, no sigh, no whimper escaped his notice. There had never before been a better acoustic aphrodisiac for John than Sherlock's struggle against orgasming prematurely. It was incomparable and served only to incite his senses even further. He could virtually see the scene playing out in front of him - Sherlock's face... distorted in a grimace of ecstasy and despair... engaged in a vain attempt to master an impossible task... the pre-programmed failure... the full knowledge both of John's cruelty and of the excitement Sherlock's struggle sparked in John... his own, continuously increasing arousal... the constant stimulation... the repeated irritation of his aching hole...

 

Sherlock's skin must be wet by now... with sweat and other fluids... his cock hard and swollen... the head plump and a deep red... and nothing was stopping him from pleasuring himself... nothing... other than John's word.

 

"John..." Sherlock finally pleaded. "I can't anymore... _please_..."

 

That was the moment John had been waiting for. "Shhh..." he said soothingly. "It's all fine. You can put the last bead in now, and then..."

 

"THANK YOU," Sherlock blurted out. "FOUR!"

 

John grinned. "That was quick," he remarked dryly. "And now you can..." He stopped short. "Are you wanking already?"

 

Sherlock faltered. "Maybe..." he answered warily.

 

"Sherlock..."

 

"You said as soon as the last bead was in," Sherlock defended himself.

 

John sighed. "As a punishment, you can only use two fingers!"

 

"But..."

 

"TWO fingers, Sherlock, and if I hear so much as one more sound out of you, then you're only going to be using your thumb. Have I made myself clear?"

 

"Mhm," Sherlock grunted obediently, and then a sobbing sort of cry could be heard.

 

"All right. That's better," John said coolly, even as his blood coursed hot and fast through his veins. "As soon as you start to come... pull the beads out. All of them. As fast as you can. Put the phone down on the bed... then you'll have both hands free."

 

It wasn't the first time they had used the black beads, so Sherlock knew exactly what he needed to do. However, it had always been John who pulled the string out with a jerk as soon as he saw the first signs of Sherlock's imminent orgasm. If the beads were pulled out at just the right moment, it intensified and prolonged the subject's orgasm considerably. Sherlock had always reacted rather enthusiastically on previous occasions. John wondered if it would be the same this time, as Sherlock had to do everything himself rather than just lying there being taken care of.

 

"Mhm," was all Sherlock said, then there was a brief rustling and everything sounded muffled.

 

"Tell me when you're ready," John growled at him, his voice hoarse, and let his upper body fall back onto the bed as well. His hand moved faster and faster on his erection.

 

"Now... now..." Sherlock gasped. "I... oh God... nnnngghhh... aaah... yes... yes... YES!"

 

John pressed his phone greedily to his ear.

 

He thought he could hear the wet smacking sound of Sherlock pulling the beads out of his irritated pucker. No matter what it was... the sound went right through to his core... sending hot shivers down his back and making his cock throb.

 

"John! JOHN! Oh yes! Yes! YES! God... I... I... John..." Sherlock lost the ability to form words at that point, and all that could be heard was blissful sobbing.

 

John wanted nothing more than to plunge into him right then and there... he would have forced his hard cock into the twitching opening and felt the convulsions of the prolonged climax that was wracking Sherlock right then, thanks to the anal beads. Instead, he had to make do with his own hand, which was working frantically over his erection. His hips automatically jerked upward and hot semen erupted between his fingers.

 

As soon as John had halfway returned to his senses, he put the phone up against his ear again. "Sherlock?"

 

No answer.

 

John forced himself to remain calm. He was sure nothing had happened. Of course nothing had happened to Sherlock. But his second invocation sounded fairly agitated and worried. "Sherlock?!"

 

"Yes, I'm still alive..." Sherlock's raw, exhausted voice droned out of the receiver, and John sighed with relief. "But I wish... you were here."

 

"Yeah, I..." John began. The bed he was lying on was cold and horribly Sherlock-less. "I wish I were too." Sex somehow wasn't the same without having his hands full of a sweaty, dark-haired, cuddle-hungry clinging vine.

 

They listened to each other breathing for a while. Then Sherlock broke the silence.

 

"John?"

 

"Yeah?"

 

"How are you?" Sherlock asked softly. It sounded as if he weren't sure whether the question was allowed.

 

"The conference is going about the way I expected," John answered somewhat evasively, in the hope that Sherlock wouldn't be quite as obstinate as usual following his spectacular orgasm.

 

"That bad?" Sherlock prodded, and John sighed in defeat.

 

"What can I say?" he cried with a touch of frustration. "Some of those idiots think I had that Kenneth bloke knocked off to take Albright down a notch and shut him up, and then... when he didn't stop flapping his gums... that I killed him myself. Or… ordered Moran to do it."

 

" _To shut him up_... are they saying it's my fault?" Sherlock asked astutely. "Do they think you committed those murders because Albright made some... disparaging comments about me?"

 

"There's really no keeping secrets from you," John noted somewhat glumly.

 

"Very few," Sherlock concurred. Then he went on, downcast: "Am I at fault for your difficulties?"

 

"No," John said immediately. "Everything's gone off kilter lately... the bomb... the unsuccessful ventures... Dimmock's death... the gist of it is, they're accusing me of being a failure as a boss."

 

"That doesn't sound good."

 

"It'll all work out," John assured him, and it wasn't just Sherlock he was trying to mollify. "They're still doing what I say... one successful coup will be enough to shut up the masses."

 

"It would still be better if we knew..."

 

"Of course it would be," John broke in. "But... that doesn't really help us... We don't know who's behind it, and we don't have any way to figure it out at the moment. Sooner or later, whoever it is will give themselves away... until then... I'll get things under control one way or another."

 

"Of course." It didn't sound entirely convincing. "Take care of yourself."

 

"You're worse than Mike, you know that?" John said with a little laugh, in an attempt to lighten the mood. "He's also mother henning me... and Dave and Naresh are here too."

 

"All right..." Sherlock said with a soft sigh. "Good night, John."

 

"Good night, Sherlock."

 

Twenty minutes later, John's phone beeped. A text? Who would be sending him a text at this time of night?

 

_\- I put them back in. Call me first thing tomorrow. -_

 

John swallowed, his throat dry. Sherlock couldn't possibly mean what he...

 

His phone beeped again.

 

Another text?

 

Pictures?

 

Oh my God...

 

He really did have them in again...

 

Semen smeared across Sherlock's stomach...

 

One of the big, black beads stretching Sherlock's hole...

 

The reddened, slightly swollen ring of muscle wrapped tightly around the rubberised connector between two of the beads...

 

The black handle of the tail end protruding between thighs shiny with Vaseline...

 

Sherlock's half-hard erection, still stained with his ejaculate, barely half an hour old.

 

The entire string of beads was inside Sherlock again... the pressure on his prostate must be enormous... and he wanted to endure that all night?

 

There were only four pictures, yet John's penis jerked greedily. Sherlock really knew how to cheer a chap up.

 

But why hadn't the blasted git made a video?

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Somewhere in London, the digital version of " _Wannabe_ " peeped shrilly out of the phone of a waitress-stroke-model named Kitty, who didn't think herself above blowing a fellow for a twenty. When money was too tight to pay the rent, you really couldn't afford to be choosy.

 

She took the phone out of her pocket and opened the message she'd just received. She stared for several minutes at the photo of Charlie White that one of her occasional johns had sent her.

 

"I know that bastard!" she cursed softly.

 

How had it gone? Oh right - now she remembered... It had been a bad day. Rainy and hardly any customers in Speedy's, the little café she'd been working in at the time. She'd smoked her last fag that morning and didn't have enough money for a new pack. One or two decent tips would have been enough, but the only real customers she'd had during her shift - leaving aside the ones who bought their coffee to take away and never left a tip anyway - were real penny-pinchers. They hadn't left her a penny even though they'd had money. Lots of it. Some of it had even changed hands in a fat envelope. She'd seen it clear as day! Oh, she'd pretended to be polishing the glasses, but she'd kept an eye on the men the whole time. She'd thought they were lovers at first, the way they were crowded up so close and secretive in the corner, but when all they did was talk, she'd quickly dismissed the idea.

 

She was sure they'd been up to no good. A malevolent grin danced across her bright pink lips. This was going to be the payback for those wankers stiffing her on the tip. She was going to blow the whistle on them. Who was she supposed to contact? Ah... someone named Jason. She noted the number from the text message and entered it into her phone.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Late in the morning of the following day, Sherlock tried once again to find a position on the chair at John's desk that was halfway tolerable.

 

The echo of the pain - resulting from their activities the previous night and that morning - was a constant presence, although it faded to a diminished buzz whenever Sherlock managed to concentrate on his work. Whenever - or rather: _if_ \- he managed it. Because it didn't take more than a single thoughtless shift to provoke a thrilling flare-up in his nerve endings, which generally caused a partial erection.

 

Sherlock was just considering - with mild desperation - whether he should get a soft cushion to sit on when Jacques came into the office with a rather sour expression on his face. Sherlock didn't recall hearing a knock, and therefore raised an eyebrow in query.

 

"You have a visitor," Jacques announced in a somewhat huffy tone.

 

Sherlock did a double-take. "A visitor? For me?" Then something occurred to him: "If the visitor happens to be Mr Holmes... I'm not available," he said, attempting to sound lofty as he gave the directive.

 

Jacques pursed his lips. "The visitor in question is a... _lady_ ," he clarified, sounding somewhat pained and with a particular emphasis that made it all too clear that Sherlock's visitor, in Jacques' opinion, was anything but a lady.

 

"What's taking so long?" a female voice rang out clearly from the entry hall. An impatient female voice.

 

"Irene?" Sherlock called out in astonishment and leapt up from his chair.

 

"I'll show her in," Jacques said, his distaste audible, and went out.

 

A short time later, he was holding the door open for Irene, who entered with regal bearing. A mischievous impulse came over Sherlock at the sight.

 

"Jacques?" The butler stopped where he was, bewildered, and Sherlock decided to take a chance on his weak position with this particular segment of the staff. "We require coffee." He deliberately omitted a _'please'_.

 

Jacques ground his teeth at the presumption, but in the end he nodded curtly and disappeared.

 

"Do you really think he's going to bring us coffee?" Irene asked with a bemused smile.

 

Sherlock came out from behind the desk but didn't hold out his hand to Irene. Instead, he tilted his head to one side.

 

"I'm still taking odds."

 

Irene laughed. "I haven't come across that much snootiness in ages."

 

"Are you talking about the butler or the chandelier out in the hall?" Sherlock followed up with an amused smile of his own.

 

"Both," Irene declared promptly, taking a seat on one of the cream-coloured leather armchairs without waiting for an invitation. She managed not only to lower herself onto the seat in her tight-fitting, white skirt suit - whose understated elegance indicated a four-digit price tag - without flashing anything improper, but also to cross one leg over the other.

 

"I see business is going well," Sherlock remarked.

 

"Chic, isn't it?" Irene said, smoothing out the skirt over her legs. Then she took a look around. "You've got a nice thing going here too..." Irene mentioned nonchalantly, running the tip of her tongue along her carefully painted lips.

 

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "If you're trying to squeeze more money out of John..." he warned.

 

"He could certainly afford it," she said dryly.

 

"He's already paid you more than enough," Sherlock huffed. "If it were up to me, you wouldn't have received anything."

 

Irene laid a hand over her modest décolleté in mock shock. "After all I've done for you?"

 

Sherlock snorted. "My other clients compensated you more than enough for that. Didn't you buy a pair of holiday homes a couple of months after I started working for you?"

 

"Those were just down payments, darling. Down payments."

 

Sherlock sighed in annoyance. "What are you doing here?" he asked, putting an end to the senseless chit-chat.

 

Irene gave him a smug once-over. "I want to find out what all this cloak-and-dagger business between you and Jason is about." Sherlock froze, which didn't escape Irene's sharp eyes. "Did you really think anyone living under my roof could keep secrets from me?"

 

"It's none of your business," Sherlock blurted out gruffly. "It has absolutely nothing to do with you, and I..."

 

"Oh really? It doesn't concern me?" Irene asserted insistently. "Fine, then I won't show you the text message Jason received last night, the one he was so excited about."

 

"Irene..." Sherlock said, feeling himself go pale. "Give it to me. You don't know what..."

 

Irene watched him, her eyes big and round. "Good heavens..." she said, both perplexed and mildly shocked. "It was meant to be a joke... Here." She passed him her phone. "I already have it on the display for you."

 

Sherlock all but tore the smart phone out of her hand and read the brief message.

 

He read it through once. He read it a second time. And then a third time.

 

"Blond. Tall. Close-set eyes. Square chin," he murmured absently to himself. He tapped some keys with nimble fingers and forwarded the message to his own phone. His pocket buzzed as the message arrived, and he clenched his teeth in order to curb the effect the vibration had on him.

 

"Is there any advantage in it for me to know what this is all about?" Irene asked, exercising wise restraint.

 

"No," Sherlock answered shortly and handed the phone back to her. He'd have to take a closer look at this later... after Irene was gone and he had some peace and quiet again.

 

Before Irene - her sceptical look speaking volumes - could say anything more, Jacques returned with a tray on which two coffee cups were perched. Sherlock's eyebrows were about to shoot up, but he clamped down on that reaction as well. He hadn't actually thought they were going to be getting any coffee by this point. He was therefore willing to overlook the fact that Jacques hadn't knocked this time either. Irene - who was clearly used to giving orders - instructed the butler as to her wishes ( _'One lump of sugar, lots of milk'_ ), giving him no other choice than to accede to the request with a nervous twitch of his right eye. Irene accepted the cup with elegance and as if she'd never expected anything else.

 

The two men's eyes met briefly, and Jacques - with obvious reluctance - placed two lumps of sugar into Sherlock's cup without needing to be told. Sherlock took his cup as well, not feeling any particular need to express gratitude for it. Irene had already taken a sip of her coffee and took a deep breath.

 

"My goodness, that's strong," she murmured in an undertone as Jacques left the room with a faint snort.

 

Sherlock's vigilant eye had detected something in the meantime, and now he had to hide his smirk behind his own first sip. Irene - just like Sherlock - had been deemed unworthy of one of Jacques' special almond biscuit creations. It wasn't really funny, but Sherlock saw it as a private joke and struggled against a somewhat hysterical giggle. In spite of her expensive clothing and stylish appearance, Jacques had sensed - with a servant's impeccable instinct - that Irene wasn't respectable enough.

 

"Delicious, isn't it?" Sherlock remarked in passing.

 

"It's a good thing I don't sleep at night anyway," Irene responded, giving Sherlock a wry look. "But you probably don't either... Does your Doc keep you up often?"

 

"That's none of your concern," Sherlock grumbled and took a large sip of his coffee.

 

"Where is he anyway?" she pressed.

 

"Away."

 

"Hmm... will he be gone a while?"

 

"Yes."

 

Irene observed Sherlock with a knowing smile. "Wouldn't you like to sit down? I'm getting a stiff neck having to look up at you the whole time."

 

"I prefer to stand," Sherlock replied with haughty indifference.

 

The red lips pulled into a smug grin. "Oooohhh... does it still hurt so much?" Irene pretended to be sympathetic. "You poor thing. I hope you get paid well for it."

 

"John doesn't pay me!" Sherlock hurled at her angrily. "That chapter is over and done with."

 

"Well... that may be," Irene acknowledged, "but you must be getting a few nice little trinkets for keeping your arse at his beck and call."

 

Sherlock set his coffee cup down on the desk with a loud clatter. "I never asked anything of him," he retorted vehemently. "And I never will!"

 

"A bit short-sighted, if you ask me," Irene pointed out, sounding unimpressed. "You never know..."

 

"You don't get it, Irene," Sherlock cut her off, upset. Then he took a deep breath and announced with simple dignity: "I love him."

 

Sherlock's confession didn't fail to leave an impression on Irene. Her eyes turned soft and a gentle smile came to her lips. "Then everything's fine," she stated, her voice uncharacteristically warm.

 

But rather than doing something like winking at her at least, Sherlock avoided her eye.

 

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Irene cried with a long-suffering look. "Yes, I understand now... your Doc hasn't said those three little words to you yet. So what?" She underscored her statement with a dismissive gesture. "The Doc is no honey-tongued smooth-talker... He'll say it to you eventually."

 

"No, he won't," Sherlock said in a small, forlorn voice that was no less certain, as he continued to stare out the window.

 

Irene stopped short. "What? Of course he will."

 

"No."

 

"Why not?"

 

"Because he doesn't love me."

 

"That's ridiculous!" Irene cried, laughing a bit.

 

"It's not ridiculous," Sherlock insisted and turned his head to look at her. "He doesn't love me," he repeated soberly, a wistful quirk at the corner of his mouth.

 

Irene's eyes narrowed in thought. "How can you be so sure?"

 

Sherlock swallowed and looked down at the floor. "I just know. He... If he really loved me, then... he would have told me. He's no poet and would never do anything as cheesy as scatter rose petals on the bed... just the stems with thorns, maybe... but he's never made a secret of how he feels about me."

 

"Of _course_..." Irene drawled. "Sherlock, we're talking about Doc Watson here. I believe you when you say the man can't get enough of praising your sweet little arse and has probably told you what a firecracker you are in bed till the cows come home. But to state his true feelings out loud? In my experience, your Doc is one of those men who need a little push. Otherwise nothing will ever come of it."

 

Sherlock's brow furrowed and he crossed his arms over his chest. "If he needs to be pushed... then I don't want him."

 

"Lord have mercy..." Irene groaned, lifting her eyes to the ceiling.

 

"There's no reason to go all pious!" Sherlock huffed. "Why do you always say that?"

 

"Fine..." Irene conceded. "Let's just assume for a moment it's how you say and he doesn't love you... What does he feel for you then, in your opinion?"

 

Sherlock appeared irritated at first, but then he said slowly, "He... appreciates me."

 

"He _appreciates_ you," Irene echoed dryly. "And that's the only reason he's put up with you for months now? You needn't glare at me like that. Why would he still want you around if he didn't love you? Hm? Answer me that!"

 

"Sex," Sherlock answered flat out.

 

Irene broke out in bubbly laughter. "Sex. Sex can be bought," she stated dismissively. "In case you don't remember... that's precisely the reason the two of you met in the first place. Someone like the Doc could get sex on any street corner if that's what he wanted."

 

"Not the kind of sex we have," Sherlock said, not without some pride.

 

"Oooohhh, someone's rather pleased with themselves. Is it that good?"

 

Sherlock nodded with a tentative smile.

 

"Do tell!" Irene insisted, leaning eagerly forward.

 

"Our... needs... complement each other extremely well. And that's all you're going to hear from me on the topic," Sherlock answered firmly.

 

"Spoilsport." Irene pouted and leaned back in her chair. "So you think he's only keeping you around because the sex is so excruciatingly good and he _appreciates_ you..." A smirk crossed her lips. "Did you notice the word play? Excruciating?" But when she saw Sherlock's furious gaze, she turned more serious again. "Believe me, that's not the reason you're still here with him. The reason is that he loves you."

 

"Irene... please, just leave it be." Sherlock's voice wavered between anger and helplessness.

 

But Irene ignored him and kept going: "Do you remember the last time you didn't want to believe me? When I guaranteed you he'd come back for you? And? Did he come back? Was I right?"

 

"Yes..." Sherlock admitted grudgingly. "But that doesn't mean..."

 

Irene didn't let him finish. "He's going to proclaim his love for you at some point. I'm sure if you tell him often enough, he'll... What is it now?!"

 

Sherlock had turned his eyes away sheepishly, making Irene suspect the worst.

 

"You haven't said it to him either?!" she cried out, aghast. "I really don't know what to do with you anymore!"

 

"I don't want to pressure him. He shouldn't say it just because he feels like he has to... he should only say it if it's really... true," Sherlock explained haltingly, his gaze lowered. He only looked up when he caught a whiff of her perfume.

 

"Oh, Sherlock." Irene had stood up and come over to him. She placed her hand on his chest in a gesture of sympathy. "The two of you truly deserve each other... Men!" she snorted, rolling her eyes. "You can't seem to do anything right. Am I glad I don't have to muck about with that anymore. Women are much more... but that's not the point," she cut herself off and looked him straight in the eye. "Sherlock - I'm going to give you a piece of advice: don't be so pig-headed. Sometimes you need to give your happiness a little shot in the arm." She gave him a parting kiss on the cheek, leaving behind a distinct lipstick smudge. "Good-bye, Sherlock. Maybe that will get your Doc's engine revving a bit. A little jealousy can do wonders."

 

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock asked, feeling his cheek with a sense of foreboding. When he discovered the traces of lipstick on his fingers, he yelled at her in horror: "Have you gone completely insane?!"

 

But Irene just laughed and went to the door. "Best wishes to you, Sherlock - and don't forget to invite me to the wedding."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

No sooner had Irene left than Sherlock ran to the toilet on the ground floor and rubbed frantically at his cheek with a wet flannel until he could no longer tell whether his skin was red from her lipstick or his aggressive treatment. Sherlock took a deep breath and lowered the flannel. If he were caught by Jacques or Anthea with obvious traces of lipstick on him - he could do without that, thank you very much. The two of them would probably fall over themselves to inform John of Sherlock's apparent slip-up. Would John listen to such ugly gossip and actually believe Sherlock had been unfaithful? Probably not - but it couldn't hurt to be careful. No, John would know that Sherlock had remained faithful... would always remain faithful to him... that there would never be anyone else for him but John.

 

He took a long, hard look at his face in order to be sure he'd got rid of all the lipstick, and was astonished at what he saw.

 

There he was again... the breathtaking man from the bedroom mirror... Sherlock's hand flicked up to his image in the mirror then touched his own face. He looked at himself in fascination.

 

Of course he looked in the mirror every morning and evening when he washed and shaved - but he was always concentrating on his task when he did that. He never just looked at himself for vanity's sake. Those days were past, ever since the unpleasant experiences he'd had in school - which had (supposedly?) opened his eyes for him. Since then, he'd only focused on whether he'd missed a spot shaving or whether his hair was combed neatly. He never truly looked at himself. Never let the full force of his presence come to bear on himself. Never looked any deeper than his stubble or his skin.

 

Until now...

 

Stunned, he searched his face... his expression...

 

True, he wasn't anywhere near as breathtaking as he had been that evening when his approaching orgasm had ruddied his skin and made his eyes gleam as John's arms encircled him. But even now there was a light in his face, and he looked... happy.

 

A shy smile spread across his face, and Sherlock realised that John had been right the whole time... he was beautiful.

 

The realisation that that claim was the truth took his breath away just for a moment. Accepting that he was attractive, however, was much easier than acknowledging the fact that he'd played the violin better than Mycroft.

 

_I am not a failure, and I am... beautiful._

 

He savoured those words in his mind a little longer, wondering whether they had always been true and he'd never seen it, or whether it was his feelings for John that made him glow.

 

The smile in the mirror deepened at the thought of John, becoming more tender and softer.

 

Sherlock took that to be the answer to his question. Yes - without John, so many things would never have been possible... so many things would never have happened... his life would never have taken a turn for the better.

 

The taunts of the other students weren't forgotten, but they faded even further into the background, lost their meaning and no longer influenced how he saw himself, while John's compliments assumed a much larger role in his thoughts and rose closer to the forefront. Sherlock hearkened back to how gradually this development had occurred... how John's words of praise had been so painful at first... how they had later become merely unpleasant... how he had finally learned to accept them as some sort of delusion John suffered from, and how he could now believe them himself.

 

He had been so alone ... he owed John so much... a single lifetime would probably never be enough to express his gratitude. But he could try.

 

Feeling a little impish, he winked at himself in the mirror.

 

But now he really had to turn his attention to that extremely interesting text message and try to find out more. He'd best call Kitty right away.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

It was the second-to-last day of John's stay in Crieff. The meeting had gone well for him after all, and they'd even been able to finish earlier than planned. Only one more night separated him from London... from home... from Sherlock...

 

The extra night was necessary, unfortunately, due to it being such a long drive back to London. Dave and Naresh would take turns at the wheel, but he didn't want to make either of them undertake such a strenuous drive at night. Moran, on the other hand, had left right after the meeting with his two companions. John shrugged his shoulders. Everyone did whatever they thought was best.

 

And so John was now doing something he otherwise never had the time or inclination for: taking a walk. Mike had wanted to clarify a few details with some of the other attendees, so they'd agreed to meet here in Taylor Park, which was near the hotel, in order to go to dinner together later. Maybe they would even open the bottle of whisky John had picked up from the nearby Glenturret Distillery. Mike certainly wasn't going to say no to a nightcap.

 

The park wasn't too big, and thanks to their mobile phones they'd be sure not to miss each other. John strolled at a leisurely pace through the grounds, enjoying the rays of the afternoon sun on his skin and feeling an early hint of autumn in the wind that rustled through the first yellow leaves in the trees.

 

Summer was irrevocably over.

 

The path John walked along ended up taking him to a playground. Two swings, a see-saw, a sand pile and a slide. The usual, in other words. Several children of various ages were running around and playing. Their parents - most of them of the female variety - sat on the benches around the perimeter of the playground or stood near the path, waiting more or less patiently for their offspring to have their fill and come join them again.

 

As John was in no great hurry, he also stopped for a moment to watch the goings-on.

 

Just as he was about to turn around and leave, he noticed one of the very few men standing - like him - at the side of the path. Something in his posture seemed familiar to John... the rather compact, medium stature, the slightly curly, straw-blond hair... No. It couldn't be. He was imagining things. A fleeting similarity - nothing more.

 

But then the man suddenly turned toward him. He'd probably sensed that he was being watched.

 

One look at those big, green eyes was enough.

 

"Victor?" John cried - but it came out no louder than a whisper.

 

"Oh my God... John."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_**To be continued…** _

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

 

Kitty… I modelled her after Kitty Winter from the original stories of Arthur Conan Doyle. But if you like… you can also think of her as Kitty Riley from the BBC series.

<https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Adventure_of_the_Illustrious_Client>

 

Here is an example for the anal beads mentioned in the story:

<https://www.meo.de/en/anal-balls-anal-beads/3531-anal-bead-strand-ref-8735-00.html>

[https://www.meo.de/en/ass-lock/4345-analkugeln-mit-cockring-ref-9510-00.html](https://www.meo.de/de/ass-lock/4345-analkugeln-mit-cockring-ref-9510-00.html)

 

     

 

Some short information about the Crieff Highland Games - … in August. Interesting for me (and you) because of the timeline of the story:

<http://www.crieffhighlandgathering.com/>

There really is a park in Crieff. (What would I do without Google maps?) But I can’t say if there happens to be a playground.

  


And this could be the whisky which John bought. The bottle costs approximately 150 pound (or 200 Euros) and it will play a not unimportant role in the next chapter. 

<http://www.thefamousgrouse.com/store/whisky/the-glenturret-18yo-single-cask-70cl-59-8/>

AND… piccies!!!!

<http://lorelei-lee.tumblr.com/post/130682618419/teaser-for-the-next-chapter-of-deflowered>

 

 

 


	38. Take Arms Against a Sea of Troubles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation by the wonderful SwissMiss!
> 
> I hope you all won't hate me too much for this chapter. It contains a scene that I wouldn't call non-con but it is bordering on dub-con. So... that said... enter at your own risk.

 

**Chapter 38 - Take Arms Against a Sea of Troubles**

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_It was one of those hot, sweltering summer days that come at the tail end of a heat wave. Rather than the much hoped-for coolness of a good rain shower, it managed only to deliver an increase in the ambient humidity. In other words: most people's nerves were on edge._

 

_And John was one of them. Still, he'd been looking forward all day to seeing his current boyfriend - Percival Phelps - whom he was supposed to meet at the Criterion Cafe._

 

 _The Criterion was within a stone's throw of the campus, so Mike and Susan - having nothing else to do that day - joined John. They ordered ice-cold drinks and chatted listlessly about nothing in particular. Or at least Susan and Mike did. John didn't participate in the conversation - instead, he jiggled his foot nervously the whole time while staring at the door. When Percival finally entered the cafe, John jumped up from their table, excited and happy, and rushed over to him_.

 

_"I bet he's going to break up with him today," Susan murmured in an undertone to Mike, shifting around on her chair so she could see John and Percival better where they were standing near the entrance._

 

_Mike sucked on the straw of his iced chocolate and asked with poorly disguised disinterest, "Who's breaking up with who?"_

 

_"John with Percy," Susan replied, watching over Mike's shoulder. John was talking passionately about something, but Percy's expression was one of increasing aversion and disagreement. "Won't take long now."_

 

_Mike sighed. They'd borne witness to scenes like this a couple of times too many now - generally unwillingly._

 

_John raised his voice just then. "What do you mean, you don't want to go along?"_

 

_"I'm not going to some opera!" Percy shouted, his tone of voice making it clear he considered it the biggest imposition he'd ever heard of._

 

_John gaped at him. "I asked if I should get tickets and you said YES!"_

 

_"Because I thought you were joking!"_

 

_"Excuse me?!"_

 

_Half the café was now listening to the debate, their interest increasing apace with the volume of the voices. But the two young men didn't notice._

 

 _"Yeah," Percy insisted. "I thought it was just your weird sense of humour and you were really going to get tickets for ABBA or_ 'My Fair Lady' _."_

 

 _John inhaled audibly through his nose. "_ 'My Fair Lady' _?" he repeated derisively, making it all too clear what he thought of musicals as a genre. "When I say I'm getting tickets for 'La Traviata' then that's what I'm doing. Do you have any idea how dear those tickets were?" he asked in a dangerously calm voice._

 

_Susan whispered a countdown, grimacing in resignation. "Ten, nine..."_

 

_"I really don't care," Percy retorted._

 

_"Fine! Grand! You know what, Percy? Bite me! I'll just go to the opera with the next bloke who comes in!"_

 

_"Okay!" Percy yelled back. "See if I care! But if you do, it's over between us!"_

 

_"...five, four..." Susan kept counting even as Mike shook his head in gentle disapproval._

 

_"Fine," John growled. "You're not that good at giving head anyway."_

 

_Percy turned bright red at his words. "You son of a..."_

 

_"And that right there..." John said, reaching out one hand, "belongs to me." He grabbed the gold chain Percy was wearing and tore it off his neck with a quick, forceful motion. Percy screamed in pain, outrage, and shock. John ignored him completely, turning his back on Percy and starting to return to his table. Before he could, though, he nearly tripped over a young, blond man who'd just entered the cafe and hadn't heard any of the preceding argument._

 

_"Oh, sorry..." said the man, pushing his wavy hair back off his forehead._

 

_"Would you be interested in going to the opera with me?" John asked abruptly._

 

_"I don't know..." The man hesitated, smiling in confusion._

 

_It was a rather charming smile, and Susan followed the scene spellbound, her mouth hanging partway open. Mike had turned halfway around in his chair by now as well and watched, eyebrows raised, as his friend accosted the new arrival._

 

 _"_ 'La Traviata' _," John said succinctly, adding a winning smile. After the initial shock and a second look, he decided the other fellow appealed to him. "It just so happens I have an extra ticket on short notice."_

 

_"Don't do it!" Percy hissed to the blond, pushing past the two of them. "The man's insane!" He rubbed his sore neck and stormed out of the cafe without so much as a backwards glance._

 

_"Oookayyy," the young man said slowly. "And that was...?"_

 

_"My ex-boyfriend, as of thirty seconds ago," John replied promptly. "Do you want to go anyway?"_

 

_"We could have dinner first," the man suggested, his eyes twinkling magnetically._

 

_"Love to," John agreed with enthusiasm._

 

_"There's just one wee problem..."_

 

_John's grin faltered a bit. "What's that?"_

 

_"I generally don't make dates with people without knowing their name."_

 

_John's eyes narrowed in amusement, and he held out his hand with an apologetic smile._

 

_"John."_

 

_"Victor," the blond man replied and took John's hand, which he held onto a bit longer than strictly necessary._

 

_"Wow," Susan breathed out._

 

_"And that's the starting shot for the next one." Mike sighed in resignation and turned back to his iced chocolate. "Wonder how long that's going to last."_

 

_Susan tilted her head thoughtfully to one side. "I don't know... I think... it might actually turn into something."_

 

_While the rest of the guests' interest returned to other things, John and Victor stood there talking, their hands still joined._

 

**oooOOOOooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

"Jason!" Sherlock growled threateningly into his mobile phone.

 

"She's already been to see you?" Jason's voice sounded rather thin on the other end of the line.

 

"What were you thinking?"

 

"Oh, man... Sherlock. You know how Irene is. She probably knew something was going on the whole time... so of course she just _happened_ to be standing right behind me when I read Kitty's text."

 

Sherlock snorted.

 

"She took me by surprise," Jason continued his defence. "What was I supposed to do?"

 

"Lie," Sherlock said flatly.

 

"Forget it. I tried lying to her once. Never again," Jason stated categorically. "When I told her what was going on this time, she forbade me from contacting you. Said she wanted to do it herself."

 

"Which she did," Sherlock confirmed peevishly. "She's probably under the impression I owe her a favour now..."

 

"My sympathies," Jason replied without a hint of sarcasm. "So, is that it now? With us, I mean... are we even?"

 

"Yes, we're even," Sherlock said with a small sigh. "I'll take over from here. But if any other messages should come in..."

 

"Agreed," Jason said obligingly. "I'll pass them on to you."

 

Sherlock ended the call and looked up Kitty's number. She was the next one he needed to speak to.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

John registered - with a peculiar emotional distance - that Victor had barely changed at all. Oh, there were a couple more lines around his eyes, but other than that? The golden sprinkles in his green irises were still there, and the dimple in his left cheek would be as well... although it wasn't visible at the moment, since Victor wasn't smiling. Instead, he was staring at John as if he were the Devil incarnate.

 

And there was something else... Victor was wearing a wedding band.

 

"How did you find me?" Victor finally managed to ask, his voice trembling, which threw John completely for a loop.

 

"I didn't," he answered, shaking his head a bit. "I haven't been looking for you."

 

Disbelief was sketched firmly on Victor's face, and John felt himself losing patience.

 

"I never looked for you," he insisted. "How could you even think something so ridiculous? Did you think this whole time, I was... what, going after you? Have you been hiding out here? In Scotland?" John laughed, but it didn't sound happy. He gestured toward the wedding ring. "I suppose you even took your partner's name so I really couldn't find you anymore."

 

Victor paled, and John realised he'd hit the nail on the head. Strangely, that only served to make him more furious.

 

"Daddy, Daddy! Watch!" a girl called just then as she climbed the ladder to the top of the slide. She was maybe eight or nine years old and was dragging a younger girl - probably her sister - after her.

 

Victor's head jerked around in the direction of the two girls, and John was hit with a suspicion that was confirmed by Victor's next words.

 

"Yes, angel... I see it!" Victor called back to the girl.

 

"I understand... not only married, but with children too." Saying it out loud felt like a kick to the gut.

 

Victor's attitude changed abruptly. "Do whatever you like to me," he said, his voice low but insistent, "but leave my wife and children alone." Perspiration gleamed on his upper lip but his gaze didn't waver from John's.

 

John had no idea what to say to that at first. "Did you... do you really think I'd do something to you?" he asked, shaking his head in disbelief even as he gave Victor a lopsided smile. "Do you honestly think I'd want revenge... for something that happened over ten years ago?"

 

"Fourteen," Victor corrected him. "Fourteen years. And yes, I think you're capable of something like that. You always were violent and unforgiving."

 

The accusation made John fairly speechless with anger. "I never touched a hair on your head!"

 

"Only because I left first," Victor said resolutely, despite the fact that his hands were shaking and his forehead had broken out in a cold sweat. "It was just a matter of time."

 

John shook his head, incapable of speaking.

 

"I found those magazines..." Victor continued, shaking his head in disgust. "You'd hidden them well, but... How long would it have taken until you couldn't hold back your perverse inclinations any longer? A year? A few months? I also found those furred handcuffs... You wanted to talk me into it, didn't you? Slowly lead me into those repulsive..." He broke off, grimacing in revulsion.

 

"If you didn't like it, I would have gone without," John heard his 25-year-old self answer. Yes, he had wanted to bring it up with Victor, at least to try it, even though he'd already suspected - feared? - that Victor probably wouldn't be too enthusiastic. He'd thought long and hard about it back then, and decided that Victor was more important to him than anything else. He'd honestly planned to forego his sexual preferences for Victor's sake.

 

But today, such words of noble abstinence felt hollow in his mouth. He knew now that it never would have lasted, and that they would both in all likelihood have ended up unhappy.

 

"You've never gone without anything," Victor retorted with a look that made it clear he didn't believe a word John was saying.

 

"I didn't want to go without _you_ back then anyway," John admitted, swallowing hard. "I... loved you, Victor."

 

"You don't know what love is," Victor hurled at him, devastatingly, and John felt an icy chill creeping into his hands, his feet, his head.

 

"But _you_ do, is that it?" John asked, his voice raw. The simultaneous urge to throttle Victor and burst into tears was so contradictory and foreign to John that he felt paralysed. When Victor didn't answer, John continued: "Do you even realise that I was about to... I was looking at rings in the window of a jeweller's shop..." John broke off. His hands were trembling and he didn't even know if it was out of anger or disappointment. "You were the love of my life," John said, only managing to suppress the tremor in his voice with a concerted effort. "What was I to you?"

 

"A mistake," Victor said on impulse, tearing John's heart right out of his chest without even realising it.

 

John squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to push back and wrestle down the pain that had seized hold of his entire body. When he looked up again, Victor flinched away from him.

 

"Fuck," Victor whispered. His forehead was sweat-damp with fear.

 

"Why did you lie to me?" John rasped. "Why didn't you say anything? We could have talked about it... we could have gone our separate ways in peace... How long did you let me dangle like that, hm? How long were you planning on running away? How long did you let the farce drag on?"

 

"What was I supposed to do?" Victor sounded desperate. "You wouldn't have just let me go!"

 

"Yes, I would have," John insisted.

 

"Tell me you didn't play with the idea of dragging me back and beating me black and blue!"

 

John opened his mouth to protest, but found he couldn't. When Mike had made the suggestion to him back then, he really had been tempted... to catch Victor and punish him... He tried to close his eyes to shut out reality again. God, what kind of a person was he? He was starting to disgust even himself.

 

"I didn't do it though," John said, avoiding the main point.

 

"But you thought about it... and the idea gave you pleasure," Victor stated in a flat voice. "What are you going to do to me now?"

 

"Nothing," was John's simple answer. "I'm going to leave you alone... you don't need to be afraid of me... You don't need to move away, you don't need to change your name... I haven't been planning revenge on you over the past fourteen years, and I'm not about to start now."

 

An expression of astonishment appeared on Victor's face. "And I'm supposed to believe you?"

 

"I loved you, Victor..." John repeated, casting about desperately for something he could say to buttress up his credibility. "Do you need money? Is there any way I can help you? Anything for... the kids? For their education?" he asked almost helplessly.

 

"No, John... YOUR money is something we definitely don't need. I never needed it."

 

John thought about Victor leaving behind all his presents. The jewellery, the watches...

 

"Not clean enough for you?" he remarked coldly.

 

"No. It never was," Victor confessed.

 

John felt as if he'd been slapped across the face. He shook his head, turned around and walked away.

 

He hadn't gone more than ten steps before he saw Mike standing in front of him. John hadn't seen him arrive. Furious and confused, he stopped where he was and ran a hand through his hair.

 

"John? You look like hell," Mike said. "Did you see a ghost or something?"

 

"We're leaving, Mike," John managed to press out.

 

"Yeah, okay... our table's not reserved for another half hour, but..." Mike's eyes swept thoughtfully across the playground. He froze in the next moment. "John..." he said, his voice taking on a completely different tone. "That man over there... John... is that... is that Victor?"

 

"I said we're leaving," John repeated firmly.

 

"That IS Victor," Mike blurted out. "What the..." One look from John's blazing eyes made him fall silent. He cleared his throat. "Okay... fine... let's go eat."

 

"No, Mike. When I said we're leaving I meant we're driving back," John explained.

 

Mike stared at him, utterly bewildered. "Now?"

 

" _Now_ , Mike."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Just as Sherlock was about to go to bed - an empty bed, which seemed horrifyingly cold without John - his mobile beeped. He took it out of his trouser pocket, his face already brightening, when he recognised Mike's number. An irrational fear stretched its icy claws out toward him. His fingers flying, he accepted the call and pressed the phone so hard against his ear that it hurt, shouting, "What's happened to John?"

 

"Nothing!" Mike reported, but his voice sounded anything but soothing. "He's... fine. Given the circumstances."

 

"MIKE!"

 

"Yeah, yeah - no reason to scream. Nothing happened, really. It's just... Sherlock - we're coming back tonight. Now, don't ask me any questions - just listen. John will be back from the loo any second and I... anyway... Sherlock, go to your old room and lock yourself in. Do you hear me? You'd best put the dresser in front of the door too. All right?"

 

"What happened?"

 

"I can't tell you on the phone. We'll be home in about two hours. Go to your room and lock yourself in, okay? Promise you will!"

 

"All right," Sherlock answered, a terrible suspicion growing.

 

There was no way he could even think of sleeping anymore.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Sherlock took Mike's advice and went to his old bedroom, but he didn't lock the door. In fact, he left it open a crack so he'd be sure not to miss John's return. He paced back and forth nervously in the room, with its green decor. Wasn't green supposed to calm the nerves?

 

Sherlock realised once again that uncertainty was the worst thing that could happen to a distraught brain. He kept telling himself over and over: _"John's alive. He's fine."_ The statement became his mantra over the next two hours, but it didn't really help. Something terrible must have happened, or Mike wouldn't have sounded the way he had on the phone just now. Sherlock had hardly ever seen Mike be anything but sanguine, and if anything did ever shake him up, it was either something funny or else Mike reacted assertively. But during his call he'd sounded unsettled, as if he weren't able to completely judge the magnitude of whatever it was - and that was extremely alarming. A Mike who wasn't completely in control of the situation and didn't know everything that was going on? A highly unpleasant thought.

 

When Sherlock finally heard the cathartic sound of a vehicle coming to a stop in front of the house, he sighed in relief and perked up his ears.

 

A short while later, the door downstairs opened and closed, and distant steps sounded in the night-time stillness of the house, becoming louder as they approached. Sherlock could vaguely make out Mike's voice, but no one else spoke. When the footsteps came to the top of the stairs and started down the hall, Sherlock could distinguish only two pairs of feet. Mike and... John? The other person must be John. Wasn't it? Mike was talking to whomever it was, but in place of an answer, the door to John's bedroom was slammed shut loud and more than clear. Then there was silence. Sherlock was so keyed up he was about to explode, but - keeping Mike's warning in mind - stayed where he was in his old room even as a pair of feet began the trek back up the hallway.

 

Sherlock looked down at his hands, the fingers twisted around each other, and relaxed them with an expression of dismay. Mike was coming to see him - he couldn't be allowed to see how agitated Sherlock was inside. The steps had arrived in front of his door, where they stopped.

 

After a short pause, the door was pushed open and Mike sent him a reproachful look.

 

"Sherlock... I told you to lock it! Don't you ever do what you're told?"

 

"Rarely," Sherlock conceded with a shrug. "John could tell you stories."

 

"John is a sorry bugger," Mike returned dryly and came in. "You'll want to know what happened."

 

Sherlock shot Mike a rather ugly look.

 

"Don't bite my head off right away," Mike said, unimpressed, and dropped down onto one of the armchairs with a tired exhalation. "John ran into Victor," he said, as if that should clear up any uncertainties.

 

But Sherlock just gave him a blank look. "Who's Victor?"

 

"He never told you about Victor?" Mike asked, only to promptly answer his own question: "No, of course he didn't." He sighed heavily. "Victor and John... Victor used to be John's boyfriend."

 

"John's boyfriend?" Sherlock repeated. His mouth suddenly went dry.

 

"Yeah, I... It was serious. At least it was for John," Mike explained, as if he found the subject embarrassing. "More than that... I can't really say. If John hasn't told you anything then I shouldn't either."

 

Sherlock sank down onto his old bed. He felt numb. But then the meagre bits of information started to come together to form a picture. It had been serious for John... John, who had once said, _'No one fucks around behind my back'..._

 

"Did he cheat on John?" Sherlock heard himself asking before he'd even completed the thought.

 

"No," Mike stated with a bitter smile. "He ran away. Without a word of warning, although he did leave a note. He left the flat they shared... just gone. Like on the telly. John..." He hesitated, but then he continued: "John was pretty broken up about it."

 

Sherlock managed, with some effort, to take a shaky breath. "And they met up again?"

 

"I don't know exactly what happened. But I gather they ran into each other more or less accidentally. I didn't get there until John was leaving... and then he insisted on coming home right away." Mike shook his head. "You should have seen the look on his face... He insisted on getting behind the wheel himself. Drove like a maniac. I thought for sure he was going to kill us all. I told him a million times he should slow down - if the police had stopped us... with all our weapons..." Mike shuddered. "He wouldn't listen - he was beyond reason. We finally managed to talk him into letting Dave drive. Although... I'm not sure that was much better." He regarded Sherlock with tired, sad eyes. "He sat with me in the back seat and … he started drinking. Right from the bottle... Shame for that lovely Glenturret. Emptied nearly half the bottle. Fortunately, he had to take a leak then so I could call you. I also managed to convince him to give me his gun."

 

"How is he? Is he very drunk?" Sherlock asked, his voice flat.

 

Mike tilted his head in thought. "Drunk? Fairly... but I've seen him worse. What bothers me more is his state of mind."  
  


"Is he angry?"

 

"If only I knew..." Mike said mournfully. "I've never seen him like this before." He slapped his knees and stood up. "That's why I thought it best to warn you. You never know what ideas may come into his head when he's in one of his moods... You probably know best how he can be."

 

Sherlock saw how difficult it was for Mike to give voice to the unpleasant truth about his friend, so all he did was nod.

 

"You're a decent fellow, Sherlock," Mike said. "Do yourself and John a favour and stay in here tonight. Lock the door, don't let anyone in, and push the dresser in front of the door. Promise me?"

 

"Yes," Sherlock answered carelessly, his mind already elsewhere. He didn't intend for a single second to keep that promise. "Did John say anything else?"

 

"Not a peep. Not during the whole drive. I've no idea what's going on in his head at the moment," Mike admitted, his face creased with worry.

 

"Thanks," Sherlock said and held out his hand. "Thank you for bringing him home."

 

Mike took the proffered hand, somewhat confused, and shook it.

 

"No problem." He smiled weakly. "I'll be back again early tomorrow. Or rather... later this morning."

 

Sherlock returned the smile mechanically.

 

As soon as Mike had left him alone with one last admonition to be careful, Sherlock pressed his hands together and rested the tips of his fingers against his lower lip. His thoughts were racing, processing the information he'd received from Mike.

 

So John was upset because of a chance meeting with his former... domestic partner … (even thinking the word made Sherlock feel physically ill). That was understandable. The question was: was John angry, or more sad? Was he grieving a lost opportunity? Or had his temper got the better of him and he was furious because he'd never exacted revenge... never been able to do so? Sherlock's brows drew together in irritation - without any additional details, it was impossible to answer those questions.

 

Sherlock intended to do something to rectify that as soon as possible. Of course he was going to go to John's - _their_ \- bedroom and be supportive. John would do the same for him. He'd already decided that, and Mike's warnings hadn't made him change his mind. But at least they'd prompted Sherlock to take a closer look at and weigh the risks and consequences of that decision.

 

The most important thing to consider here was certainly the fact that John was drunk. Not drunk enough that he was staggering or unable to walk on his own, but tipsy enough to let his baser instincts rise closer to the forefront.

 

What would John do when he saw Sherlock standing in front of him?

 

Sherlock allowed each individual scenario to play out in his mind's eye as dispassionately as possible.

 

The most desirable - and at the same time most improbable - outcome was that nothing would happen at all. They would simply hug and be happy they had each other.

 

Sherlock snorted. When Hell froze over.

 

Sherlock batted away that option with a sweep of his hand.

 

What else?

 

Tears? Would John break down and cry on his shoulder? Sherlock gave the scenario some consideration and decided it wasn't in John's nature to gain release in that manner.

 

That only left aggression. Sherlock was going to have to stand in for the culprit as the whipping boy. John would yell at him, and presumably also get physical. The question was how much force John would use. Was Sherlock up to handling an attack made in anger? Of course he was. Even more so if his opponent was intoxicated and not fully in control of his faculties... at least as long as it remained a matter of fisticuffs.

 

Sherlock quickly ran through all the weapons John had at his disposal in the bedroom. Mike had taken the revolver... there weren't any open blades in the room other than a knife like the ones used by mountain climbers to quickly cut through ropes in an emergency. Maybe a nail clipper... but he didn't have to worry about things like that. Sherlock briefly thought of the two Chinese vases. Shards could be dangerous. He'd have to watch out for those. A chair leg could do some serious damage if it were wielded against the neck or the head. Then there was the risk of strangulation... by hand, or with one of the bondage ropes... even a pillow held over the face could lead to suffocation.

 

After carefully considering all the risks, Sherlock decided he had enough means at his disposal to prevent the worst from happening.

 

There was just one thing that he was hung up on: would John try to have sex with him?

 

Sherlock's train of thought stopped abruptly, and he chuckled. What kind of question was that? This was John. Of course he'd want to have sex. The thing was... did Sherlock want it too? Sherlock thought about it long and hard. He wasn't under any illusions as to the fact that any intimate contact between himself and John that night would have more in common with a rape than a consensual act of intercourse that was pleasurable for both parties. John would be rough, if not downright brutal, and most likely abandon all his usual care and consideration. Sherlock thought about that carefully and decided it was something he could live with. He didn't mind being hit; he could handle that. The only regrettable point was that he probably wouldn't enjoy it this time because he'd have to remain alert and unable to relax.

 

And once they got to that point, would John let himself be slowed down by preparations, such as lubricant? Or would he try to penetrate Sherlock dry, the way he had that one time his overheated temper had won the upper hand?

 

Sherlock's penis throbbed lustfully at the thought. The corners of his mouth curled up in chagrin and he rolled his eyes before glancing down at his crotch, his forehead creased in annoyance.

 

"Not helpful," he muttered. A state of arousal might be desirable under different circumstances, and would certainly make things easier, but if he wanted to keep a clear head and preserve life and limb, being horny would simply be counterproductive.

 

And even if the word _rape_ had been tossed out there, this would still be consensual... Sherlock was going into the lion's den of his own free will. Therefore, it wasn't rape - for Sherlock, at any rate. One more point of the _safe-sane-consensual_ triad ticked off.

 

Sherlock pursed his lips thoughtfully.

 

He was going to vouch for his own safety... he was taking this step of his own accord and following considerable deliberation, so it was consensual... that just left _'sane'_. Sherlock sighed. Sanity was going to have to take a back seat this time... as it so often did between them. But he could live with that too.

 

He wasn't able to fulfil all the criteria - but two out of three wasn't bad. He'd made worse decisions in the course of his life. Remaining under the same roof with John yet not being with him was strictly out of the question; it was simply not an option.

 

And so... he was going to go to John right now.

 

Sherlock took his lockpicking tools and went to the bedroom, where he pushed down on the door handle without bothering to knock. But the door was apparently locked and didn't budge. Inside the room, John must have noticed that someone was trying to gain entry, and he pounded his fist against the door.

 

"Go away! I just want to be left alone!" came the muffled, angry cry through the door panel.

 

Sherlock flinched back a bit but took the tools out of his pocket anyway.

 

"It's me," Sherlock said and set to work on the lock.

 

"Sherlock?"

 

"Yes," Sherlock answered calmly.

 

There was silence for a moment, followed by a sharp "Piss off!", which Sherlock ignored with practised ease. A few seconds later, the lock snapped open with an audible click, making the way clear. Sherlock straightened up and went in. He closed the door behind him again and looked around.

 

Through the half-open curtains, blue moonlight filtered into the room, which was otherwise illuminated only by the lamp on the nightstand, painting a circle of yellow light on the wall and floor. And in the middle of that circle stood John in shirtsleeves and trousers, pouring amber liquid out of a clear bottle into a glass. He looked up when the door opened. His eyes empty, he set the bottle down on the nightstand, drained the glass in a single swallow, and put it next to the bottle. Then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and approached Sherlock.

 

"Okay... if that's what you want," he growled.

 

Sherlock's features swam before John's eyes in an unholy fog of alcohol, shame, aggression, pain, disappointment, and frustration. Victor's face came more and more into focus within John's field of vision until Sherlock disappeared behind it entirely in John's mind. Blind with anger and grief, John pulled back his arm, preparing to lash out.

 

Sherlock moved along with the trajectory of the punch, taking much of the force out of it. He let John connect, albeit weakly, rather than avoiding him completely - which would have been a possibility as well.

 

But then he became aware there was something he hadn't thought of... should he try to calm John down, or let him rage? Sherlock cursed himself silently - there was always something!

 

The first attack was closely followed by a second, and Sherlock recognised that he wasn't going to have much success with any attempts at conciliation. Even in the insufficient glow of the lamp on the nightstand, the baleful gleam in John's eyes was clear to see. It was a gleam that was full of foreboding, similar to that which Sherlock had seen in Anderson's eyes many years before, during that highly unfortunate defining moment that had occurred behind the bicycle shed of his old university.

 

Sherlock struggled with the sense of powerlessness that arose in him at the memory... how pitiful he'd felt on that day... how worthless... how repulsive...

 

But he wasn't as wretched and weak as he had been back then. He'd changed. He wasn't the same person anymore. All the intervening years had shaped and changed him, left a mark on him, an imprint on his soul... he was disillusioned, to be sure, but by no means a broken man. Neither in spirit nor in body. That was something he'd come to understand during his time with John. No one had ever succeeded in truly breaking him... not even John... back when he'd still been trying to. Living with John had contributed much more to promoting the process of healing his wounds and scars, both visible and invisible.

 

He wasn't weak. He wasn't pitiful, and he wasn't powerless by a long shot.

 

John stared at him.

 

"Why... My God, why..."

 

The quaver in John's voice and the way he wiped his eyes gave Sherlock renewed confidence. John wasn't Anderson, and Sherlock wasn't the youth he'd been back then. No matter what the night might bring... he'd make it through... they'd both make it through, and then... then John and he could pick up the pieces in the morning together and finally leave all the ballast of their past behind them.

 

Maybe it was like the kind of fever one shouldn't try to lower, the kind that needed be sweated out before it could disappear and allow a true recovery to occur.

 

Sherlock was so involved in his own thoughts … he didn't pay attention a moment too long... and that single moment was enough for John - who apparently had moved past that brief emotional phase as quickly as it had come - to wrestle Sherlock to the ground.

 

John's hands wrapped around Sherlock's throat with an iron grip. Sherlock's fingers immediately caught John's wrists in order to prevent the worst from happening. But John didn't squeeze. He just held him there, showing no mercy. It seemed as if everything were frozen in place until John said, his voice broken, "Why... don't you just end it... put an end to it... Why don't you fight back? Why the hell aren't you fighting back?!" And Sherlock knew that John really did want Sherlock to fight back, to stand his ground against him, to use his safeword, to put up some sort of resistance... no matter how or what, as long as Sherlock didn't just let John do whatever he wanted. But that was precisely what Sherlock planned to do, and what he was doing right now. He was giving John free rein.

 

After several painful moments, the fingers released his throat. That was the last time that night that Sherlock had the sense John was truly seeing him as himself.

 

Sherlock struggled to his feet and prepared for the next attack.

 

Blows rained down on his body, and Sherlock knew John didn't mean him.

 

His clothing was torn and his body exposed, and Sherlock knew John didn't mean him.

 

He was thrown to the ground again and flipped onto his stomach, and Sherlock knew John didn't mean him.

 

His legs were forced apart and John plunged into him without any preparation, and Sherlock knew John didn't mean him.

 

Sherlock wasn't prepared for his own tears. It hurt to be taken like that. Not physically - although that was unpleasant as well - but psychologically. He wasn't prepared for that kind of pain, which was why it hit him so deeply. A film was running in John's head in which Sherlock didn't fill any of the roles... it was someone else. Sherlock was nothing more than a stunt double for the lead, and it hurt in an unexpected way to be used as a placeholder by someone he loved.

 

After that, John left him lying on the floor and went to pour himself another glass of whisky. Sherlock heard the muted clinking of glass against glass and the gentle burble of liquid being poured. It went on for quite a while. John wasn't going to be able to toss back that amount in a single draught; he'd need a bit more time.

 

Sherlock was glad for the respite. He was exhausted and he knew - should this not prove to be the end yet - that he wasn't going to have the strength or focus to avoid every single blow, or even to mitigate them. He was going to have to absorb even more. He heard John swallowing, and all of a sudden he remembered the door wasn't locked. It would have been a simple matter of getting up and leaving. Something told him John wouldn't stop him. Not now that the first storm had passed. Sherlock considered it briefly but decided against it. It wasn't over yet. John still needed him.

 

"So I was a mistake, eh?" John blurted out of the blue. Sherlock raised his head, interested, but John wasn't looking at him. He was staring out the window. The curtains weren't quite pulled all the way shut, permitting a view of the night sky over London. Due to the light pollution of the big city, it never got completely dark, was never able to become the star-filled, black velvet meadow it would have been in its natural state.

 

"Fuck!" John swore, threw his glass to the floor, where it shattered into a thousand pieces with a tinkling crash, and rushed over to Sherlock, his footfalls bearing witness to his fury. Sherlock thought it the better part of valour to get up and meet John's attack from a standing position.

 

He was cursed and beaten, and at some point his lip split open and started bleeding because he wasn't able to dodge a left hook... and Sherlock knew John didn't mean him.

 

He was forced down onto the bed and crudely fingered; his penis stiffened, and John sneered at him, saying, "Oh, now you like it?!" and Sherlock knew John didn't mean him.

 

John penetrated him a second time, fucking him in a hard, staccato rhythm, and when John stroked roughly over his erection, Sherlock ejaculated without either wanting to or enjoying it. It was simply due to mechanical stimulation, habit, and exhaustion.

 

"You dirty slag," was John's only comment before he kept moving inside him, and Sherlock knew John didn't mean him.

 

When dawn finally tinged the sky pink, John let him go.

 

Sherlock lay there, his eyes closed, ignoring his aching body, and heard the sound of John snoring lightly.

 

That's when he knew it was over. He let himself sink deeper into the pillows, completely drained, pulled the cover half over himself, and fell asleep immediately.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Sherlock woke to the sound of a door slamming. He listened, somewhat incredulously, as a key slid into the lock on the other side of the door, and was turned.

 

He looked around. The space next to him in the bed was empty, and he couldn't see or hear John anywhere.

 

John had left and... locked him in?

 

Sherlock had no idea what to make of that at first, but then he recalled Mike's words to him: _'He ran away. Without a word of warning, although he did leave a note. He left the flat they shared... John was pretty broken up about it.'_

 

John simply wanted to stop him from running away - like Victor had back then. Sherlock sighed in relief and shook his head. John was such an idiot. As if Sherlock would ever leave him.

 

Fine, then he'd just wait until John came back.

 

He turned over and tried to fall back asleep, but just when he'd found a position that didn't hurt, someone rattled at the door asking for John.

 

Sherlock recognised Mike's voice and called back, "John's not here, Mike."

 

"Sherlock?!" Mike blurted out in horror. "SHERLOCK?! Oh my God... what happened? No, don't say anything... doesn't matter. Are you all right?"

 

Sherlock tilted his head back and forth, considering. _'All right'_... that left quite a bit of room for interpretation. He didn't want to send Mike into fits of hysteria, though, so he answered - not entirely truthfully - "Yes, I'm fine."

 

"Thank God," he heard Mike say, his voice muffled. "Okay - then open this bloody door so I can see for myself."

 

The key hadn't been left in the other side then... John must have taken it with him.

 

"I'm afraid I can't do that."

 

"What?!"

 

"I can't open the door, as John appears to have locked me in," Sherlock explained casually.

 

"WHAT?! He did what? He must have gone completely round the bend. Sherlock... don't panic... stay calm... I'll get someone and have them break down the door... I'll get you out. I'll be right back..."

 

"NO!" Sherlock yelled. "You'll do nothing of the sort!"

 

"WHAT?!"

 

"Mike... you sound like a broken CD."

 

"Have you taken complete leave of your senses?!"

 

"No," Sherlock answered firmly. "For some reason, John wants to ensure that I remain exactly where I am. And that's why I'm going to stay here."

 

"Sherlock..."

 

"Mike, it's fine. Truly. I don't know where John's gone - but I'm sure he'll be back soon... and when he returns, he needs to find me right where he left me."

 

Sherlock listened for Mike's response, but when nothing was forthcoming, he called out, "Mike?"

 

"Two hours! If John isn't back in two hours, I'm breaking this door down!"

 

"Four hours!"

 

"TWO!"

 

"Five," Sherlock bargained blithely.

 

"All right, all right," Mike hastily capitulated. "Three. Three hours. Do you hear me?"

 

"Yes," Sherlock replied. "And you're not to contact John and order him to come back."

 

"You're both insane, the two of you!" Mike shouted back. "Fine, I won't call him!"

 

"Thank you!" Sherlock said, but he didn't really sound grateful. "And when John comes home... don't interfere."

 

"Fine," Mike agreed dully. Then he said, "Sherlock?"

 

"What else now?"

 

"If you need anything... does the house phone still work?"

 

"Yes," Sherlock said to ease his mind. Mike only meant well. It was a strange feeling to have someone mean well with him who he wasn't having sex with and who didn't gain any other advantage from it. Just because. "If I need anything, I'll let someone know."

 

"Okay... good, then... I'll go now... I'll be down in the office in case..." Sherlock listened to the footsteps receding hesitantly until he couldn't hear them anymore.

 

Sherlock couldn't fall back asleep. He was suddenly overcome by the desire for a cigarette and a shower. As he was imagining himself taking a nice, long, hot shower, he realised how thirsty he was. Annoying. If he'd known John was going to lock him in... Sherlock sighed, miffed. He should have anticipated it if he'd really listened to what Mike had said.

 

He forced his protesting limbs to stand, but the quest for water was useless. All he found was the whisky on the nightstand. Alcohol would only dehydrate his body further, but a little sip might help shorten the wait. Sherlock picked up the bottle and read the label. It was the same Glenturret Mike had mentioned. Eighteen years old and 59.8% alcohol... almost cask strength. How could John have drunk so much of it without watering it down?

 

Sherlock opened the bottle and took a whiff. He wasn't an aficionado like John, but the scents of pineapple, orange, vanilla and cinnamon stood out even to a lay nose like his. He took a small, careful sip directly from the bottle. The flavours of vanilla and orange were once again clearly defined. It wasn't exactly the kind of thing Sherlock liked, and the whisky was too strong for him - but the alcohol warmed him and went to his head just a bit. Sherlock lay back down on the bed and ended up being able to doze a little, putting aside for the moment all the problems that were still waiting for him.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Shortly before Mike's three-hour time limit expired, Sherlock heard footsteps out in the corridor. The tact was regular - not stumbling or hesitant, but of an almost military precision and decisiveness. The door handle was depressed, and Sherlock thought he heard a soft, confused _'no'_. Then a key prodded frantically - and inaccurately - around the keyhole until the door was unlocked with a redemptive click and swung open.

 

A deathly pale mob boss stood in the doorway, his eyes round.

 

"Sherlock..." It was no more than a raspy whisper. "Sherlock..." In just a few long strides, John went to the bed where Sherlock lay and stood there uncertainly, his expression approaching despair.

 

"Hello, John," Sherlock said with a faint smile, and flinched. The bloody scab on his split lip was painful.

 

John sank down onto the mattress in a daze. "Why are you still here?"

 

"Because this is precisely where you wanted me to be," Sherlock answered calmly. "Why should I be anywhere else?"

 

A stricken look came into John's eyes. "What have I done?" he whispered, horrified.

 

"Nice of you to finally show up again," Mike's unusually venomous voice sounded from the door.

 

John whirled around and stared at his friend wordlessly. But his silence didn't last long.

 

"Why didn't you get Sherlock out of here?!" he accused him angrily.

 

"Oh, that's good!" Mike cried in indignation. "That's a good one! Because he wouldn't let me! If it had been up to me, this door would have been broken down three hours ago. But no..."

 

"But..." John objected, bewildered.

 

"No _'buts'_ ," Mike hissed. "You're going to do the right thing for once in your life! You're going to see to it that Sherlock goes to hospital, right now. And then you're going to take responsibility for what you've done. Do you hear me, John? I'm going home to my wife now, and don't you dare call me. You can find your own way out of this mess. Have I made myself clear enough?"

 

John nodded mutely, and Mike disappeared without another word. John stared at the empty doorway for several seconds before taking his phone out of his pocket.

 

"What are you doing?" Sherlock inquired sharply.

 

"What am I doing? I'm calling an ambulance for you."

 

"You'll do nothing of the sort!" Sherlock insisted.

 

"What? No... Mike... Mike's right," John admitted. "You need to go to a hospital. I'll..." He lowered his eyes, ashamed. "And if they ask me what happened I'm going to tell the truth."

 

"John, you can't."

 

"Why not?" John asked blankly.

 

"They'll lock you up," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly. "And that... I cannot allow that to happen. It will be _just_ the excuse the police have been looking for to pin something on you. A feeding frenzy."

 

John stared into Sherlock's pale, confident eyes with astonishment.

 

"Sherlock... for once in my life, I want to accept the consequences for what I've done, and you... you're not going to let me?"

 

"That's right," Sherlock replied, obviously pleased that John had finally understood. "I don't want you to end up in prison. I want you to stay here with me."

 

"Sherlock, that's insane... how can you still want to stay with me... after everything... after everything I..."

 

"I came to you of my own free will," Sherlock explained gently yet firmly. "Mike warned me, so I knew what I was in for."

 

John sent him a look that was both incredulous and uncomprehending. "Mike warned you? And yet you still..." John shook his head. "We all know you don't listen to a thing I say... but the fact that you wouldn't listen to Mike..." Bitter regret was reflected in his countenance. "Why did you do it? Why did you come to me? Why did you do something so harebrained?"

 

"Because that was what you needed," Sherlock answered simply.

 

"Stop giving me what I need!" John cried, distressed.

 

Now it was Sherlock's turn to give John a blank look. "Why?"

 

"Because I don't deserve it," John said gruffly.

 

"Opinions differ." Sherlock shrugged his shoulders with a casual air, only to pull a grimace at the pain. "And now stop looking at me as if I were some saintly vision."

 

John touched Sherlock's cheek, almost shyly, as if he were afraid Sherlock would turn out to be some kind of illusion that would burst and dissolve at the slightest touch.

 

"But you are, Sherlock... you're a bloody miracle."

 

 _'Miracles happen to those who believe,_ ' John's grandmother had always said. John had stopped believing long ago. And yet, here was Sherlock, who had fallen into his lap like a silver dollar in the fairy tale. John was forcibly reminded of the many times Sherlock had been there for him... had done things for him... had been prepared to make sacrifices as if it were a matter of course, all but giving up his entire self in a way that nothing else even came close to.

 

"Still... Mike's right," John went on emphatically. "You need to see a doctor. You need a hospital."

 

"I don't," Sherlock insisted.

 

"Sherlock..." John said, half plea and half threat.

 

"I don't want to go to hospital. I want to stay here. You're a doctor."

 

"I'm not a doctor... I just studied medicine for a couple of semesters."

 

"That's enough for me."

 

"Sherlock... you need to see a real doctor."

 

"I don't want a real doctor. I only want you."

 

"You're being completely unreasonable!"

 

"I've survived worse."

 

John shut his eyes, pained, and Sherlock knew he'd won.

 

"Oh... by the way... the Chinese vase..."

 

"Yeah, why is it on the floor?"

 

"You might want to dump the contents down the toilet. And as long as you're in the bathroom - bring me back a glass of water. I'm terribly thirsty, and all this talking hasn't made it any better."

 

"Toilet?" John asked with a sense of foreboding.

 

"I needed to take a piss," Sherlock admitted with a sigh. "And now go get me that water."

 

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_**To be continued...** _

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Don't worry - the next chapter opens with John taking care of Sherlock's injuries, and some things are going to be discussed.

 

I used Matthias Schweighöfer (a german actor) as a model for the young version of Victor. He looks closest to how I imagine him... I did find other pictures online that would have suited him better, but I couldn't find out who they were of so I decided not to use them.

 

And I admit I cheated a little with the second picset... the scene doesn't take place in that context here. But it fit so well otherwise. Sorry.

 

 

<http://lorelei-lee.tumblr.com/post/131083055034/teaser-for-the-next-chapter-of-deflowered#permalink-notes>

 

 

 

<http://lorelei-lee.tumblr.com/post/131210579499/yes-another-teaser-for-the-next-chapter-of>

 

 

 


	39. Damage Control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation - as always - by the amazing SwissMiss!!!

 

**Chapter 39: Damage Control**

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

After Sherlock had drunk a glass of tap water and a bottle of mineral water and John had failed in his attempt to get him to eat anything - not even so much as a spoonful of soup or a slice of toast - John had fetched the first aid kit from the bathroom cabinet and started to examine him.

 

No, he was certain he didn't have concussion; he hadn't vomited, after all. No, he was sure his nose wasn't broken; he hadn't had a nosebleed, and he hadn't spit up any blood. Did he have blood in his urine? John should have checked that himself when he emptied out the contents of the vase. No, John was not allowed to watch the next time he peed. No, it didn't hurt when John pressed there. No, not there either - at least not until all of John's useless, superfluous poking and prodding started to hurt in and of itself.

 

John took all of Sherlock's crabbiness in stride and without comment, and went ahead applying creams to bruises, dabbing antiseptic tinctures onto wounds and sticking plasters over open cuts. When he discovered a particularly ugly welt on Sherlock's back, he was so wrapped up in his caretaking that he found himself leaning forward to kiss the wound and blow on it.

 

It was simply a reflex, something he did because his mother had always done it for him, but before he went so far as to say, _'All better now,'_ he noticed Sherlock's muscles stiffen and his body straighten, and John became uncomfortable about what he was doing. How stupid! An injury didn't heal any faster just because you kissed it! And what had come over him, treating Sherlock like a little child?

 

"John... are you trying to kiss my _boo-boo_ and make it _better_?" Sherlock asked, an inscrutable undertone in his voice.

 

"Er, yeah... sorry... I don't know either," John stammered sheepishly, glad for the fact that Sherlock had his back turned to him so he couldn't see John's face turning red. What had got into him? What was he thinking? He'd never done anything like that before... to be fair, such drastic aftercare had never been necessary with any of his earlier lovers, as John never let himself go like that... had never let himself go so far...

 

"No, no," Sherlock replied, clearing his throat. "It's... good."

 

Sherlock was astonished himself. Although it had no scientific basis and was completely illogical, the spot John had kissed and blown on actually did hurt less. Sherlock had a vague memory of his mother treating his scraped knees in the same manner, and it hadn't hurt as much then either. In the Holmes household, on the other hand, although he'd always been cared for in an exemplary manner, no one had ever kissed his injuries or murmured soothing words when a plaster needed to be applied. At some point, Sherlock had become too old for such things anyway, and it was left to him to put on his plasters - or not. His memories of the tender care of a loving mother had finally faded to the point that Sherlock wasn't quite sure anymore whether they were true, or whether they were simply a wish he'd had as a small boy... a wish so strong that it had formed a false memory.

 

"It's very good..." Sherlock said softly, hoping John would do it again.

 

A smile flickered across John's lips at Sherlock's halting, tentative answer, and he breathed out another kiss over a different injury on Sherlock's shoulder. Although Sherlock seemed to enjoy it, his posture was still quite stiff.

 

John took this as a confirmation of his suspicion that Sherlock had never received enough affection and caring attention in his life. He'd suspected it for quite some time, but to have the physical proof right here under his hands and lips was something else, and he was seized by the desire to reckon with all those people who had committed such sins of omission against Sherlock. But if he knew Sherlock at all, he wouldn't want any belated acts of retaliation. He already reacted with such surprise whenever he found out that John had stood up for him.

 

Another, somewhat more grim smile pulled at John's lips. But it passed when he asked Sherlock to pull back the covers and lie on his side so he could continue his examination. It wasn't until that moment that John comprehended the scope of what he himself had done to Sherlock... and that he had committed a grievous sin against him as well.

 

Dark splotches in the shape of fingers were outlined on the pale skin. There were small, crescent-shaped injuries that could only have come from fingernails digging too hard into tender flesh. When John carefully parted Sherlock's buttocks, he saw dried blood. John pulled on a thin latex glove, coated his fingers with a generous layer of Vaseline, and probed Sherlock's orifice as gently as possible. Sherlock flinched briefly but other than that held completely still. He lay there on the bed, calm and full of trust, once more putting himself completely in John's hands.

 

"You probably have an anal fissure; there are special suppositories and creams for that... I have them both here, and..." John's voice cracked and he had to swallow hard. The full force of his guilt hit him just then. He pulled his hands away, took the glove off, and rubbed his eyes. "Why are you still here... you... you said if it happened again, you'd leave." It was obviously difficult for John to say it out loud.

 

Sherlock knew right away that John was referring to that fatal day when he'd sent Glendale packing and maltreated Sherlock himself.

 

"Yes, I did say that," Sherlock agreed. "But this isn't the same thing... this time I had a choice. I didn't then. Back then, you took advantage of my helplessness."

 

"What have I done?" John said in a strangled voice.

 

"Are you going to break down now?" Sherlock asked with no more than mild interest. When John remained silent, Sherlock turned over slowly and clumsily. "For the umpteenth time, John... it's just a body... just a shell... nothing that won't heal up perfectly well."

 

"What have I done?" John repeated, apparently not having heard a word of what Sherlock said.

 

Sherlock sighed indulgently. "I knew the risks, I voluntarily..." he started to list off until John cut him off harshly.

 

"Not THAT!"

 

"No?" One of Sherlock's eyebrows wandered upward. "What then?"

 

"Everything... I... you..." John stammered, casting about desperately for words. "You were a virgin."

 

The eyebrow went even higher.

 

"You don't say," Sherlock remarked dryly. "I was under the impression that was precisely the reason you bought me."

 

"Yes... no..." John protested without much coherence.

 

"Which one is it?" Sherlock asked, a trace of impatience in his voice.

 

"You were innocent. Completely innocent," John blurted out.

 

Sherlock gave him a cautious, measuring look, as if he'd lost his mind. "John? I was working in a brothel. That's not exactly the definition of _innocence_."

 

But John didn't accept the objection. He bit his lip and shook his head. "You'd never been penetrated before... no one had ever given you a blowjob... and you'd probably never penetrated anyone else before, had you?"

 

"Well..." Sherlock said, in place of a proper response.

 

"That's not an answer," John insisted. "Did you ever fuck anyone before? Yes or no."

 

"No," Sherlock conceded bluntly. "But that has nothing to do with it."

 

Once again, John didn't seem to have heard him. "What have I done?" he fretted, completely at a loss.

 

Sherlock swallowed down his own discomfort in the face of John's despair. "John... you're the best thing that ever happened to me," he said gently.

 

John looked at him, appearing for all the world like the personification of a guilty conscience. "How would you know? You have no basis for comparison!"

 

"I don't need one," Sherlock stated simply.

 

John shook his head again. When he spoke, his voice was raw. "I should have... known better. I _used_ your innocence - that's all I ever did, was use _you_. What was I thinking? I should have done things differently. Better. You deserved better... a better first time."

 

"It was a perfect first time," Sherlock insisted. "And now stop with your needless self-castigation! What would you have done differently? Hm? Would you have wooed me? Courted me?" he asked sarcastically. "With flowers and chocolates? Candlelight dinners in quaint, secluded French restaurants? Romantic walks in the park? Holding hands even? Bashful kisses behind the rose bushes? Would you have read me poetry? Or maybe even written some yourself? Was that your plan?" Sherlock took a deep breath and sent John a penetrating look. "If so - then I'm sorry to be the one to tell you that we never would have ended up having sex, as the entire affair would have bored me to death. I would have hated every moment of it with a passion."

 

"Sherlock..."

 

"You know it's the truth."

 

John gave Sherlock a pleading look before enclosing Sherlock's hand with his fingers in an affectionate gesture.

 

"You can't forgive me so quickly!" John pressed him. "You can't keep forgiving me all the time!" he entreated Sherlock urgently.

 

"And why not?"

 

John gave Sherlock a searching look, only realising after a bit that Sherlock was being serious.

 

"Because... you just can't," John tried to explain. "It's not right!"

 

A smile twitched at the corners of Sherlock's mouth, both mocking and with a hint of promise.

 

"Have I ever given a second thought to what's _right_?"

 

"How can I ever make it up to you?"

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "There's nothing to make up for," he maintained.

 

"No... I..." John contradicted him just as stubbornly. "Then... then hit me... fuck me... it... would only be fair - justice, if you will. I... I won't fight back."

 

Sherlock stared at him in disbelief. "No, what for?" he rejected the notion flat out. "What good would it do? This isn't a matter of an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth."

 

"You can't just keep turning the other cheek either," John countered.

 

"There is no way I'm going to hit you, and I'm not going to fuck you either."

 

"Why not?"

 

"It's not what I want and it's not what you want. It's not what the two of us want," Sherlock explained with so much calm certainty that John forgot to breathe for a moment.

 

John knew it was the truth. The simple, unvarnished truth. Still, his guilty conscience wouldn't let him go that easily, and he stuck to his position.

 

"You've never penetrated anyone... how do you know whether it's something you might not enjoy?"

 

"I just know. You've also never been penetrated, right?" Sherlock tossed the question back at him. When John nodded and ran a hand shakily through his hair, Sherlock continued, "Why not?"

 

"Because I don't want it..." John admitted in a small voice. "Because I don't like it."

 

"How do you know?" Sherlock returned with a sly smile, sending John's previous argumentation right back at him like a boomerang. John nodded. He'd seen that point coming and accepted it with a bowed head. "You see..." Sherlock concluded, not unkindly.

 

"I think... for you..." John fell silent. He didn't really know what he should say... what he wanted to say...

 

It had always been John's opinion that a real man didn't spread his legs... didn't offer up his arse like a minge. But Sherlock was proving him wrong (maybe even without being aware of it). Sherlock was no minge. If John had ever met a real man, then it was Sherlock. In spite of his almost androgynous appearance. John wondered whether he himself would have been man enough to willingly accept everything Sherlock had borne - often with a smile on his face - without complaint. He didn't particularly like the answer he had to give himself to that question.

 

"Are you ever going to give me one of those suppositories?" Sherlock asked, and John had to smile despite himself at the supercilious, arrogant tone in that deep voice.

 

"Yes, of course," John agreed, rummaging around in the box at his feet.

 

"It's just ... John?" Sherlock hemmed and hawed and John looked up in surprise. "If I... if I ever... can you promise me something?"

 

"Anything," John responded immediately.

 

"All right... if I ever ... wanted to take the active role... would you let me? Without... bargaining? Without asking for anything in return?" Sherlock asked shyly, a faint pink colouring his cheeks.

 

"Of course, Sherlock," John assured him, surprised at how easily the promise passed his lips, how serious he was about it, and how light his heart became at the sight of Sherlock's relieved smile. "Anytime. All you need to do is ask."

 

"Thank you," Sherlock said, and that single word resounded like strains of the sweetest music in John's ears.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOOoo**

 

“Where’s Sherlock?” Mike asked sternly the next morning when he came into the office and found John sitting behind his desk.

 

“Upstairs...”

 

“Which part of _‘Take him to a hospital’_ did you not understand?” Mike snapped at his friend.

 

“I can’t help it!” John tried to defend himself. “He refused. He didn’t want to...”

 

“That pigheaded bastard!” Mike cried in exasperation and tossed his hands in the air.

 

John’s eyes narrowed. “Watch what you say,” he warned the other man.

 

“John, you’re not seriously going to tell me he _isn’t_ a pigheaded bastard!”

 

“No - but that doesn’t mean you have my permission to insult him.”

 

Mike gave in with a brief conciliatory hand motion. John’s protective instincts hadn’t shown themselves so strongly in quite a while. Actually, they had never been so strong, now that Mike thought about it. Why hadn’t he been like this the other night? He should have taken care of Sherlock rather than beating him up...

 

“You went too far, John,” Mike said, returning to his main point. “This time you really went too far.”

 

“I know.”

 

Mike blinked. He wasn’t used to John admitting his culpability quite so readily.

 

“Did you at least patch him up properly and take good care of him?” he pressed.

 

“Of course I did! What do you take me for?”

 

“I think I’ll hold my tongue on that one for the moment, Johnny Boy,” Mike said, shaking his head disapprovingly. “You need to do something about that temper of yours, and _pronto_. Something like that simply cannot be allowed to happen again.”

 

“I know,” John replied in an uncharacteristically docile manner. “I... it won’t happen again.”

 

“I hope not, for your sake!” Mike hissed. “If I were Sherlock...”

 

“Yes, Mike. I know.”

 

“He lets you get away with way too much. You don’t deserve him, you know.”

 

“Yes, Auntie Mike.”

 

“Don’t try and distract me!” Mike barked at John. He’d talked himself into a proper snit, and he was just getting started. He didn’t want to be interrupted. There was still something important he had to get off his chest. “You’re going to prove to him just how important he is to you! You’re going to give him something.”

 

“I...”

 

“I’m not done yet!” Mike talked over him. “You’re going to give him a present. Something nice. Something that will make him happy.”

 

“Mike - you know he doesn’t want anything,” John replied with a helpless gesture.

 

“That doesn’t matter,” Mike dismissed the objection. “He needs to see that you’re thinking of him. Whether he actually wants a present or not is beside the point. It’s the thought that counts. He needs to see that you’re making an effort, dammit.”

 

“And what exactly am I supposed to give him?”

 

“How am I supposed to know?” Mike retorted, peeved. “Whose bed does he sleep in every night? Mine or yours? If anyone knows what he likes it must be you!” When John’s only response was an odd little grimace and a shrug of his shoulders, Mike groaned before making a suggestion after all. “Maybe a nice tie pin?”

 

“He doesn’t wear ties.”

 

“Well then, some elegant cufflinks.”

 

“He doesn’t own any shirts he could use them on - and even if he did, he’d never wear them.”

 

“Then something practical ... a watch or a pinkie ring with a monogram...”

 

“He’d never wear something as poncy as ...” John protested. But then his gaze cleared and he spoke, more to himself than to Mike: “But ... I could... I could order a metal butt plug from my jeweller... have it gold-plated and engrave my monogram in the handle... I could use Sherlock’s favourite plug as a model...” He seemed to find the idea more and more appealing.

 

Mike gaped at him, his mouth hanging open. Then he gave himself a shake. “A plug... you want to give him a gold-plated butt plug with your initials on it?” he cried, aghast.

 

John beamed at Mike. “Yes - he’ll like that!”

 

“The two of you are bloody well cracked,” Mike huffed before turning on his heel and leaving the office.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Just a few minutes later, Mike stood in the living room across from Sherlock, who was resting on the sofa in pyjamas and a dressing gown as if he’d been painted into the scene. If there hadn’t been something a bit unnatural about the way he lay on his side, Mike might have thought Sherlock was posing as the Queen of Sheba. But since Mike knew what had happened between Sherlock and John - at least in general terms - he could pretty well imagine why Sherlock was reposing in that particular position, and the first thought that came to him was the one that fell unfiltered from his lips.

 

“John’s an arse.”

 

Sherlock looked up from the book he’d been listlessly leafing through. “You shouldn’t talk about your friend that way,” he reprimanded Mike mildly.

 

Mike could only shake his head at such twisted devotion. Here lay Sherlock, in obvious pain, and he was defending the person who’d put him there... while John - just downstairs - was doing exactly the same thing for him. On the one hand, it was rather heartwarming, the way the two of them stood up for each other... but on the other hand, it was so cheesy it made Mike want to vomit.

 

“How are you?” Mike asked, not deigning to honour the criticism with a reply. “And don’t say ‘ _fine_ ,’ since both of us know that can’t possibly be true,” he added sternly.

 

“Bearable,” Sherlock answered following a moment’s consideration.

 

“John went too far. Much too far,” Mike declared in a hollow tone.

 

“He only went as far as I let him,” Sherlock corrected him calmly.

 

Mike shook his head. The corners of his mouth turned down in disapproval. “You’re letting him get away with way too much.”

 

An amused twinkle came into Sherlock’s eyes. “Should I really have filed charges against him?”

 

“Yes - and I would have taken the greatest pleasure in representing you in court!” Mike declared fervently.

 

“Against John? Against your friend?” Sherlock queried, his smile both mild and incredulous. “Mike... we both know you never would have done that.” But the thought that Mike - at least at that moment - was serious about his offer warmed Sherlock in a way that was entirely new to him.

 

Mike raised his shoulders indecisively before letting them drop again. “I hope he apologised properly to you at least.”

 

“Not in so many words. But that’s fine,” Sherlock said lightly. “Words can lie... deeds can’t.” He could still feel John’s careful fingers tending to him, each gesture, each breath, and each look asking for the forgiveness he’d long been granted. That thought warmed him too... just as the tender embrace had with which John had held him through the night.

 

“John is...” Mike groped for words. “He’s not a bad bloke. It’s just that his temper gets the better of him sometimes, and then...” Mike sighed heavily and took another breath. “I’ve known him long enough. Believe me, Sherlock... he truly does regret what he did. Even if he didn’t say it to you.”

 

“I know,” Sherlock said with a smile that could teach the Mona Lisa a thing or two, before continuing in a steady voice: “And I wouldn’t let him get away with it a second time.”

 

Mike’s brow creased. “Yes, but... don’t you think that’s a bit of a tall order?” he asked with a small, uncertain laugh.

 

“No, not at all,” Sherlock stated confidently. “I may be a bit out of practise when it comes to the martial arts, but I’m perfectly capable of overpowering John any time I wish.”

 

“Martial arts...” Mike echoed, his voice toneless.

 

A narrow smile graced Sherlock’s full lips. “I’m not made of glass, Mike. And I’m not some damsel in distress.”

 

Mike shook his head with a pondering air. “I can’t believe you’re still with him after all of this...”

 

“Where else should I be?” Sherlock asked forthrightly. “John won’t get rid of me that easily. He’d need to bring out bigger guns than he did last night.” He became pensive, finally shrugging and saying, “He’d have to shoot me or something...”

 

Mike couldn’t suppress his grin. Those two were perfect for each other, in a completely twisted way.

 

“Like I said, I’ve known John a long time...” Mike resumed the thread of their discussion before hemming and hawing a bit. “And you... you’re good for him,” he finally said.

 

“Really?” Sherlock asked, sounding so incredulous that Mike had to shake his head in wonder.

 

“Absolutely,” Mike averred firmly, holding his hand out to Sherlock.

 

Sherlock propped himself up a bit on the sofa so he could take Mike’s hand with a faint smile.

 

“Thank you, Mr Sigerson,” Mike said. The sincerity of the statement was underscored by its formality, and - if possible - surpassed only by the reverence it expressed.

 

Sherlock laughed, taken aback. “Sherlock, Mike. Sherlock!” he corrected him, chuckling. “I’m still the same person. I haven’t changed.”

 

But Mike just smirked. He knew better.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

After Mike left Sherlock in the living room, he decided there was no time like the present for ticking off the next item on the to-do list - which he’d come up with during the course of a sleepless night - and set off for the service wing.

 

When he entered the kitchen, Thomas was sitting at the table devouring a sandwich, while Jacques stood next to the stove in a long apron, stirring a bowl of dough. Mike hoped it was going to turn into those delicious almond biscuits the butler always served to accompany his fantastic coffee.

 

“Mr Stamford,” Jacques said, mildly surprised, which Mike couldn’t blame him for. He’d barely set foot in the kitchen before this.

 

Thomas had hastily leapt to his feet, but was still struggling with a large bite of his snack and was therefore unable to speak.

 

“Thomas - please go and get Mrs Turner, as well as Anthea and Eleanor. I have something to tell you all.”

 

Thomas nodded eagerly and set off, eyes wide, to fetch the ladies. It didn’t take long before the entire household staff was gathered in the kitchen. Jacques kept glancing worriedly at his unfinished and neglected dough.

 

“I don’t want to keep you from your work for long,” Mike began without beating around the bush. “I simply wanted to make you aware of a couple of new house rules that will be in effect as of now.” Bewildered looks appeared on everyone’s face. Mike continued: “First: Mr Sigerson will be treated with the same respect as Mr Watson from this point forward. Second: you will only address Mr Sigerson as ‘ _Mr Sigerson’_ or ‘ _Sir’_. Third: all of Mr Sigerson’s wishes, instructions, and orders will be fulfilled immediately. You will not double-check with Mr Watson or seek any other confirmation. If Mr Sigerson wants to have the entry hall painted pink, you will do nothing more than ask ‘ _light or dark_ ,’ wait for the answer, and go buy the paint.”

 

After Mike had finished his little speech, Mrs Turner nodded contentedly and Thomas also appeared to be in agreement with the changes. Eleanor, on the other hand, seemed to be uncertain and looked to Anthea as if seeking her help.

 

“Is that supposed to mean...” Anthea probed with an incredulous expression. “Is that supposed to mean he’s taken on the position of the ... second master of the house?”

 

“Yes, that’s about the size of it,” Mike agreed. “Are there any further questions?”

 

“That is... out of the question!” Jacques cried, his moustache quivering with affront and his French accent stronger than ever. “I refuse to take orders from that... _canaille_. _Non. Jamais_!”

 

“Jacques...” Mrs Turner whispered, shocked. “Just let it go now... If Mr Stamford...”

 

Mike gave Jacques a warning look as well, including Anthea in it. “Jacques...I don’t think you really want to carry on that line of argument... at least not as long as you wish to remain employed here.”

 

Anthea took a step back and dropped her head; there would be no further objections from her. Jacques, however, didn’t quite seem to have understood yet.

 

“I will never take orders from that cocksucker!” Jacques exclaimed indignantly, his words betraying his revulsion.

 

Eleanor and Mrs Turner both gasped in shock, while Thomas grinned, enjoying the scandalous scene. Mike nodded soberly.

 

“In that case, I’m very sorry, Jacques,” he replied in a sombre tone. “But we’re going to have to go our separate ways. I’ll have your papers ready for you in an hour.”

 

“ _Non!”_ Jacques cried in horror as he finally seemed to receive the message. “You cannot do that! Monsieur Watson...”

 

“Mr Watson has put up with your behaviour toward Mr Sigerson long enough. It’s over now,” Mike declared decisively. “Does anyone else want to quit? It doesn’t really make a difference to me whether I write one reference or two...” He let his gaze wander around the gathering, but no one dared to so much as blink. The unexpected shock sat too deep in their bones over the fact that Mr Watson would fire Jacques without so much as a by-your-leave, after he’d gone to such trouble to headhunt him from someone else... and all for the sake of his current fling. Nothing like this had ever happened before, and it set a singular precedent.

 

“Good,” Mike stated, satisfied, also saying a silent, rueful good-bye to almond biscuits and coffee. Why did Jacques have to be so pigheaded and narrow-minded? “Thank you all for your attention.”

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

While Mike gathered the staff, Sherlock was thinking about Kitty’s description of the mysterious blond man for what must have been the hundredth time. His book lay abandoned on the floor; instead, he held his smart phone in his hand, tapping it pensively against his lower lip. He really hadn’t got much out of Kitty. He wondered whether money would give her memory a shot in the arm. If he had no other recourse, he would ask Mike for it - following their conversation earlier that day, he had no doubt that Mike would be only too eager to help him.

 

Sherlock hoped he would be able to avoid asking his brother for help, but he strongly suspected it would end up coming to that, as any surveillance footage that might show the mysterious blond man entering or leaving the location would give them an immense advantage. But maybe there was another way... Sherlock just couldn’t think of it at the moment. And he had the very strong feeling that his time was running out.

 

There was something else, though, that continued to nag at him... the events in Albright’s office which had led to his untimely demise.

 

Something about it all wasn’t quite _kosher_. Sherlock simply didn’t understand how Moran was the only one who had sensed a threat against John, and had been the only one to react fast enough.

 

John’s story of how he’d received the scar on his shoulder led Sherlock to conclude that John could even sense a threat that came from behind his back. He hadn’t been fast enough that time either, but that was excusable given the circumstances. He’d had to turn around first, after all.

 

Sherlock couldn’t - didn’t want to - believe that both John AND his bodyguards would have been so naive... to underestimate a danger of that magnitude and not be able to react in an appropriate and timely manner.

 

Sherlock was going to solve that puzzle before he got on his knees and begged Mycroft for that footage. At least that would buy him a little time.

 

John was working at home today, which meant Naresh or Dave were also in the house. The only question was - where?

 

Fate happened to be on Sherlock’s side for once as he glanced out a window on his way to the service wing and spotted Dave standing outside in the driveway, having a smoke.

 

Without even considering the fact that he was dressed only in pyjamas, t-shirt, and an open dressing gown, Sherlock stepped outside in his bare feet.

 

Dave gave him a curious look. “Everything all right?” he asked shortly, grinding his cigarette out with his foot on the asphalt.

 

Sherlock watched him somewhat wistfully before he pulled himself together. He wasn’t here to cadge a smoke from Dave.

 

“Not really,” Sherlock replied, and Dave’s eyebrows shot up in alarm. “I need to ask you and Naresh a few questions.”

 

Dave’s jaw tightened. “If it’s about the drive from Crieff to London, then...”

 

“No,” Sherlock cut him off. “It’s about Albright.”

 

“Okay,” Dave said, curious, even though his stiff shoulders betrayed the fact that he was on his guard. “Naresh is in the house. I’ll call him. Maybe we should go in?” he suggested, glancing at Sherlock’s bare feet.

 

“No. We’ll discuss it here,” Sherlock waved off the offer. John was inside. John should know as little about this as possible. At least until Sherlock had received some answers to his questions.

 

“Your choice.” Dave shrugged his shoulders and took out his phone to call Naresh.

 

While they waited, Dave smoked another cigarette, which put Sherlock’s self-control and willpower to a surprisingly hard test. He therefore breathed a sigh of relief when Naresh joined them, looking both suspicious and curious.

 

“Why weren’t you able to shoot before Moran did?” Sherlock asked right out.

 

Dave’s eyebrows came together. “If you’re trying to suggest we didn’t do our job right...”

 

“No, I don’t think that’s what he means,” Naresh interjected.

 

Sherlock nodded his agreement. “I’m certain that both of you have a sixth sense when it comes to danger, just like John.”

 

“We do,” Dave confirmed. “Especially because the boss doesn’t want us shooting places up when we don’t need to. We know when it’s worth getting our pieces out or not.”

 

“That day, neither of you _‘got your pieces out’_ ,” Sherlock stated. “Which either means that you’ve lost your touch and are worthless when it comes to protecting John, or... it means that John wasn’t in danger.”

 

Dave and Naresh exchanged a meaningful look that didn’t escape Sherlock’s notice.

 

“I’m right, aren’t I?” he said eagerly. “Albright didn’t pose any immediate threat.”

 

“He did have a gun in his hand,” Naresh claimed, but he sounded oddly hesitant.

 

“I told you, Naresh,” Dave retorted, “Albright wasn’t aiming at the boss. He was looking at him but then his eyes flicked over at something else.”

 

Naresh shook his head. “I don’t know... sometimes a person thinks he sees things... to justify his actions...”

 

But Sherlock had turned his entire focus on Dave, hanging on his every word, and Dave warmed to the attention. “I didn’t imagine it. I know what I saw! Albright was looking at Moran.”

 

“Dave...” Naresh murmured. It sounded as if the two men had had this conversation multiple times before.

 

“I knew it!” Sherlock crowed, paying no heed to Naresh’s objection. “Albright wasn’t aiming at John, and that’s why neither of you judged Albright to be a threat.”

 

“That’s taking it a bit far,” Naresh said.

 

Dave whirled around and glared at his colleague. “We weren’t too slow! It’s like Mr Sigerson said! The only reason Moran was so fast was because he must have known what was going to happen!”

 

“Dave - you’re just saying that because you can’t stand him,” Naresh said in an attempt to repudiate his argument. “Sebastian Moran saved Mister Watson’s life!”

 

“If that was the last time I ever see that blond bastard it won’t be too soon. He’s hiding something! I thought you Indians were so into sensing auras and things. I don’t see how you can’t...”

 

“STOP!” Sherlock broke in, and both men fell silent. “Moran is blond?”

 

“Erm... yeah,” Dave stammered, bewildered.

 

“What else?” Sherlock shouted with the same irrepressible impatience of a bloodhound who’d caught the scent of his quarry. “How else does he look? Come on! I’m waiting!”

 

Dave and Naresh exchanged an uneasy look, but then Naresh went ahead and answered.

 

“Blond hair... strong chin... his eyes are a bit too...”

 

“Close together,” Sherlock completed the thought before becoming quite still. “Close-set eyes, square jaw, blond hair,” he repeated Kitty’s description of the mysterious man who’d met with Charlie White.

 

Naresh nodded.

 

Sherlock stared blankly into the distance. “Might it be...” he muttered to himself before returning to the present with a jerk. “Pictures!” he demanded imperiously. “Are there any pictures of Moran?”

 

“Well... we don’t have any,” Dave answered, now appearing slightly unsettled. “Why? What... what is it? What about Moran?”

 

“I don’t know yet,” Sherlock said. He practically ran back to the house, turned around once he’d reached the door, and called to the bodyguards: “Not a word to John!” and then he disappeared, his dressing gown flapping behind him.

 

Naresh raised one eyebrow. “Say what you will, Dave, but he’s completely off the trolley.”

 

Dave shrugged as if he weren’t sure whether to agree or not.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Sherlock snuck back up the stairs and, once inside his old room with the door closed, dialled Mycroft’s number, a grim expression on his face.

 

He hated to do it, but if there were anyone who could inconspicuously procure a photograph of Moran without John finding out about it, then it was his accursed brother.

 

And if he could help John by doing so, then he’d bend over backwards and crawl on his hands and knees to his brother to ask him for this favour.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

One floor below, John was also getting ready to make a call... one which he’d put off for far too long.

 

 _Dr Ella Thompson, psychotherapist_ \- that’s what it said on the card Mike had forced on him many moons ago.

 

John bit his lip and firmly pressed the final digit of the number. He’d never wanted to lie down on a shrink’s couch before - he’d never seen why it might be necessary, and thought Mike was being overcautious and even a little square. It wasn’t easy to admit to himself that his friend had been right with his misgivings all along.

 

John had almost destroyed the best thing that had ever happened to him with his temper. That terrible night and the morning after had been a hard lesson for him. He never wanted to let something like that happen again. And if that meant he had to tell this psycho-bird all about his childhood then that’s what he’d do. He just hoped no one found out about it... not his mob buddies, not Mike, and most of all, not Sherlock. And if it did come out some day... well... then he wouldn’t try to deny it. Just like he’d never denied his homosexuality. Other people’s opinions had never really mattered to him... with the exception of Mike... and Sherlock.

 

It mattered to him very much what Sherlock thought of him... and that notion didn’t even scare him now as much as it used to.

 

“Dr Thompson’s office?”

 

“Yes, erm... I’d like to make an appointment.”

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Just as John ended his call and made a note of his first appointment, Mike stuck his head in the door.

 

“I had to let Jacques go,” he announced without preamble.

 

John sighed. “Because of Sherlock?”

 

Mike nodded. “I couldn’t let it go on any longer,” he explained regretfully. “He can’t keep calling him a cocksucker. You put up with that way too long.”

 

“I know,” John conceded glumly. “I just thought... it would get better on its own... After all, Jacques is...”

 

“Not the only person in the world who can make coffee,” Mike broke in with mild rebuke.

 

“Are you writing the reference?” John asked.

 

“You can bet on it,” Mike answered with grim satisfaction. “One that won’t get him another job too soon either. At least not one that pays such astronomical wages.”

 

John gave his friend a look that was both surprised and pensive. “Mike...” he said slowly, “remind me never to tick you off.”

 

“Too late,” Mike replied dryly.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_**To be continued...** _

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

 _non_ \- no

 

 _jamais_ \- never

 

 _canaille_ \- hound, skunk

 

I really hope I’ve thought of everything now. Every time I thought I was finished, one more comment or idea sprang to mind that I absolutely needed to work into this in order to reinforce the contents of earlier chapters or to prepare for future ones. And then I had to rearrange and rewrite entire paragraphs.

 

But take comfort: Sherlock is one step closer to getting those biscuits (even if it doesn’t look like it right now)!

 


	40. Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation by the fantastic SwissMiss!

 

**Chapter 40 - Secrets**

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

When Mycroft's mobile phone - his very private, highly classified mobile phone - rang, he accepted the call with a high degree of suspicion. He didn't announce himself in any way, neither speaking his name nor even answering with so much as a _'yes'_.

 

"Mycroft, you can stop the heavy breathing," Sherlock's voice issued forth contemptuously from the speaker.

 

"Brother dear … you're ringing a number known only to a select few... from a withheld number, no less. What exactly should I have done, in your opinion?" Mycroft remarked with cool condescension.

 

"You wouldn't have recognised this number even if I hadn't withheld it," Sherlock replied, less than impressed.

 

Mycroft sighed in a long-suffering manner. "No matter - where shall I have you picked up?"

 

"Picked up?" It was clear from his voice that it rubbed Sherlock the wrong way not to understand his brother's allusion.

 

"You have my number from Doc Watson - I hadn't thought this episode would go on so long after all."

 

"Episode? Mycroft - stop speaking in riddles."

 

"The fact that you've called leads me to conclude that your sojourn beneath John Watson's roof is at an end and you are now deigning to submit yourself to my custody once again," Mycroft explained his line of thinking, only managing to hold back an _'obviously'_ with great effort.

 

"John didn't throw me out and he never will," Sherlock declared hotly. "And even if he did... I'd live on the streets a thousand times over again before crawling back to you."

 

"Again?"

 

"Oh, good... you _were_ paying attention," Sherlock remarked snidely. "Yes, again! Didn't you ever wonder where I was the whole time... all those years... when you were looking for me and couldn't find me? I'll tell you where I was: right under you rather overlarge nose. Smack in the heart of London. On the streets... in back alleys... under bridges. In other words: in the gutter," Sherlock concluded with grim satisfaction.

 

"Allow me to entertain some doubts in that regard... it would have taken a great deal of skill to avoid every single surveillance camera..."

 

"I had quite enough skills at my disposal," Sherlock interrupted with a growl.

 

"...and even if that were the case, it seems highly unlikely to me," Mycroft continued, undeterred, "that a man like Watson would seek his... well... his _companions_ in the gutter."

 

"He didn't," Sherlock announced triumphantly. "He bought me in a brothel where I'd been working as a whore for the last few months."

 

"In a... brothel?!"

 

Sherlock enjoyed hearing Mycroft struggle to maintain his composure.

 

"Yes - and now that I stop to think about it... it would be better there than returning to the streets. They'd take me back in a second. On the other hand... I believe I'd rather offer my services under my real name, if it came to that. _Sherlock Holmes, prostitute_. Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?"

 

"It's clear to you, of course, that I'd find you in less than twenty-four hours."

 

"Possibly. But I'd only need a couple of hours to stir up a rather juicy scandal. I can see the headlines now: _Mayor's Perverted Brother Surfaces!"_

 

"Sherlock - what do you want?"

 

"Does the name Sebastian Moran mean anything to you?"

 

"What are you up to, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked. Sherlock could virtually hear the creases in his brow. "Are you looking for your next... _protector_? Just so you don't have to..." He broke off for a moment before continuing: "You could come back home, Sherlock."

 

"Home?" Sherlock sneered. "Where is that supposed to be? At Mama Sylvia's? No thank you, Mycroft. Whether you believe it or not - I am home. My home is with John now."

 

"And yet you're calling me behind his back. Yes, it sounds as if you've really found true happiness. Or is this a scouting party on behalf of Doc Watson? Did he give you this number?" Mycroft probed.

 

"He certainly would have, if I'd asked," Sherlock stated with pointed emphasis.

 

"So it is a secret," Mycroft determined smugly. "I'm not quite certain, but the last time I cared to check, secrets weren't one of the guarantees for a stable relationship."

 

"Come to think of it... I could also invite a few reporters to the house... _'Mayor's Perverted Brother Tells All!'_ " Sherlock said spitefully.

 

"Sherlock... you know you have a choice. You needn't stay with Watson if you don't want to."

 

"Excuse me?" Sherlock said, nonplussed. That undertone in his brother's voice... was that worry? He couldn't tell, as he'd never known Mycroft to be worried about anything and therefore had no idea what it might sound like.

 

"I made enquiries about him."

 

"Of _course_ you did," Sherlock remarked in a bored manner, yet remained on his guard.

 

"In the course of which, I was made aware of his rather … ahem... _fanciful_ preferences. I simply wish you to know... you don't have to... go to this Moran... or anyone else... in order to get away from Watson. You could, at any time..."

 

"… be forced into some mental institution in the back of beyond by your heavies," Sherlock cut in rudely. "So you found out what John likes... good. You'll be pleased to know that his particular inclinations satisfy my own needs in a most harmonious manner."

 

There was silence on the other end of the line. Not so much as a breath could be heard.

 

"Mycroft? Are you still there or did you finally have that stroke?" Sherlock asked cheerfully.

 

A throat was cleared, and then Mycroft's usual calm, cool voice sounded: "So, Sebastian Moran... and who might that be?"

 

"That's none of your concern. I simply need a photo of him."

 

"To what end?"

 

"Another nice headline might be: _'Sherlock Holmes - Mayor's Brother - Perverted Sex Games with the Mob'_ ," Sherlock pointed out as a means of making it clear he was unwilling to answer Mycroft's question regarding his motivations.

 

"That's too long for a headline," Mycroft said coldly.

 

"Yes, they'd have to make it three columns..." Sherlock mused.

 

"And you're certain there's nothing that might interest me in this affair?" Mycroft pressed.

 

"Quite," Sherlock replied promptly. It might possibly have been a little white lie, but Sherlock didn't care one whit for any difficulties the authorities might have with Moran and his subterfuges. All he cared about was John not being threatened anymore - and he wanted to leave it up to John to eradicate that threat. However, it would please him if he could provide John with the means to do so.

 

It also wasn't important to Sherlock whether John then dealt with Moran himself or allowed the law to do the dirty work. That decision was up to John, and John alone - he was the injured party, after all.

 

"Fine. Give me a day or two," Mycroft finally acquiesced. "Shall I send the photo to this phone?"

 

“Yes.” Sherlock told him the number. "Thank you," he then said in an exaggerated way, not really meaning it, and rang off.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

After dinner, Sherlock lay on the couch sipping the coffee Thomas had served. It was terrible, and going by the faces John was making, he didn't like it either. Sherlock wondered whether Jacques had taken some time off, and whether the absence of the snobbish butler balanced out the absence of his delicious coffee. He couldn't come to a satisfactory conclusion.

 

John sat in his armchair and stared at his smart phone, frowning, while the television droned in the background. John looked up from time to time to watch the programme for a few moments, only to return his full attention to his phone again.

 

Sherlock tried to pay attention to the show, but he was unable to as it was a series he wasn't familiar with. He picked up his book from that morning to read on, but he couldn't concentrate on the contents.

 

"John?"

 

"Hmm?" John said without looking up from his phone.

 

"Why don't we go to bed?"

 

"It's too early," John replied somewhat absently, but then he looked up and an understanding look came into his eyes. "Of course. You must be tired."

 

Sherlock snorted. "I don't want to go to bed to sleep. I want to go to bed so you can fuck me."

 

John gaped at him. "I'm not going to have intercourse with you, no way!" he stated categorically.

 

"Why not?"

 

"Because I'm not going to do that again until you don't pull a face when you sit down even though you've got two cushions on your chair."

 

Sherlock lowered his gaze for a moment. "Fine, then I'll give you a blow job..."

 

"Forget it!" John turned him down. "And split your lip again?"

 

"So what," Sherlock said with a shrug, but his indifference came across as artificial.

 

A disbelieving look was sent Sherlock's way. "Sherlock... I was there when you tried to eat the stew half an hour ago. You could barely get your mouth open wide enough to put the spoon between your lips, it hurt so much. So don't tell me my dick wouldn't be a problem for you. It's a little bigger than that spoon was."

 

"Then I'll use my hand," Sherlock suggested stubbornly.

 

"Sherlock - no!" John exclaimed with a hint of annoyance. "What's wrong with you today?"

 

"I'm bored," Sherlock answered so quickly that it sounded false to John's ears.

 

And so he repeated, "Bored," with a little smile that was both mocking and incredulous.

 

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "When can I go back to the office?"

 

"As soon as you can sit again."

 

"There's a couch down there!" Sherlock protested.

 

John shook his head. "What's got into you today? First you're obsessed with sex, then with checking the books..."

 

"I... I could get my violin and play for you," Sherlock suggested abruptly, not responding to John's question.

 

It slowly began to dawn on John what was going on with Sherlock. He stood up and went over to the couch, where he sat down on the coffee table. He rested his lower arms on his knees and folded his hands.

 

"Might it be... that that brilliant brain of yours has come to the completely wrong conclusion that you need to make yourself useful around here, no matter what?" John asked gently.

 

The nervous manner in which Sherlock moistened his lips was enough of an answer for John. "You're an idiot," he scolded him, smiling. "How in the world did you come up with such nonsense?"

 

Sherlock's eyes glittered in a peculiar way when he replied in a whisper: "You said it."

 

John blinked in bewilderment. "When?"

 

"On... on the first evening... here," Sherlock answered hesitantly.

 

John lowered his eyes, stricken. Sherlock was right... now he remembered. He'd made it clear to Sherlock that he'd only brought him into the house for sex. It was only understandable that Sherlock now believed there was no longer a pretence for his presence. But didn't he know that he was much more than an extremely satisfying sexual partner to John, and had been for quite some time?

 

"Then that makes me the idiot..." John said softly. "Sherlock... you don't need to have sex with me every day... you..." He reached for Sherlock's hands and held them firmly in his. "How often do I have to tell you I'd be lost without you? No matter what the situation... If you want sex, that's fine... but it's not your duty." John stroked the back of Sherlock's hand with his thumb. "Sometimes it's enough for you just to be here."

 

"John?" Sherlock exhaled in surprise.

 

A bitter smile flickered across John's still bowed face. Sherlock didn't believe him. John couldn't even blame him. Maybe that would change if he followed up his words with actions.

 

He stood up and said, "Cluedo or Monopoly?"

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

It wasn't until the Monopoly board was laid out on the table and John was counting out the play money that Sherlock realised John really meant it.

 

"Next time we're playing chess," Sherlock remarked sourly as he picked one of the figures.

 

"Why's that?" John asked.

 

"Because I'd win, at least," Sherlock answered condescendingly.

 

"Then there's no way we're playing that," John countered good-naturedly and distributed the play money.

 

Somewhat grudgingly, Sherlock rolled the dice and moved his figure forward around the board. But the longer the game went on, the less important it became until it ended up being nothing more than a background to their animated discussion. They started talking about music, and it wasn't long before the conversation turned to theatre and literature. They talked about books they'd read, books they'd had to read for school, and at some point John started talking about his family... his parents and grandparents... the dog he'd had as a child... Mike and Susan's wedding... the day he'd been hired by the mob...

 

Sherlock listened, fascinated, his eyes gleaming. He'd done his best to relate a few select stories as well, but there were too many things in his life he wasn't proud of and which he didn't want to talk about with John. But John was such a gifted storyteller that Sherlock fell ever more into the role of the enchanted listener. A role he was quite comfortable with, as John had never talked about himself and his past before - just like Sherlock - and Sherlock had never known how starved he was for the information. Now that he was receiving such a bountiful supply of it, he couldn't get enough.

 

"… and that was my first kiss," John concluded his story, shaking his head. "Peggy Brown... behind the gym... we were twelve. She ended up kicking me in the shins."

 

Sherlock rested his chin on both hands and blinked happily. "And your first kiss... with a boy?"

 

"George Williams," John replied, lost in thought. "I was fifteen. He was a year older."

 

"And how..."

 

John didn't let him finish. "Enough of these old stories." He stood up. "It's late. We should go to sleep."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

John awoke in the middle of the night, the mattress beside him cold and empty. Confused, he clicked on the lamp on the night stand and, to his relief, saw Sherlock sitting in one of the armchairs. He had wrapped his blanket around himself and now turned dully toward the light source. John peeled back his own cover with a vague feeling of disquiet and went over to him.

 

He placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and asked, "How long have you been sitting here?"

 

The only answer was a nebulous "Hmm," and a faint shrug. "You have all of Giuseppe Verdi's most important operas in your collection," Sherlock then stated apropos of nothing. "All except _'La Traviata'._ "

 

John's fingers clenched on Sherlock's shoulder and he had to make a concerted effort to relax them again.

 

"Do you want to talk to me about it?" Sherlock asked. "About Victor?"

 

Damn, the man really was very clever! John bit his lips together and closed his eyes. "Mike?"

 

Sherlock nodded.

 

"What did he tell you about him?" John pressed.

 

"Nothing," Sherlock answered curtly and stared at the wall.

 

"Do you want to hear it?" John retorted.

 

The pale eyes flickered briefly and Sherlock took a deep breath. "Is there anything I need to know?" Sherlock asked in return.

 

John hesitated before saying, "Not really, no." But that was only half the truth. The truth was more that he didn't want to talk about it. Never again.

 

"And really?" Sherlock insisted in an artfully flat tone.

 

A bitter smile curled the corners of John's mouth. "Have you ever been in love, Sherlock?"

 

Sherlock's throat went abruptly dry and his heart beat in his throat.

 

Was this the moment? The right moment? _The_ moment he'd waited for to confess his true, deep feelings to John? He looked up at John, both hopeful and unsure. But John wasn't looking at him, didn't have his head tilted toward Sherlock. Instead, he was staring blankly into space, just as Sherlock had done for much of that night.

 

Sherlock tossed all his fears and reservations overboard, infused his gaze with all his emotions, all the love he was capable of, and looked directly at John. "Yes."

 

 _'Look at me,'_ he pleaded silently. _'Please - look at me!'_

 

But the power of his thoughts proved insufficient. John continued to stare into the distance - his empty eyes directed straight ahead at nothing.

 

Disappointment spread through Sherlock, dulled and diluted his gaze, and left a bitter aftertaste of what-might-have-been on his tongue. Ashamed, he lowered his eyes, hiding his true feelings and keeping the secret of his love to himself.

 

John's jaw clenched before he laughed, albeit without humour. "Then you know how stupid it makes you act."

 

"Yes, I do," Sherlock agreed - and the effort it took to keep his voice steady and calm, banning any traitorous bitterness from it, almost tore his heart in two.

 

John's hand squeezed Sherlock's shoulder more firmly, and now their eyes met. _Too late... too late..._

 

"But there is something you should know," John said. "I'm done with it. With him, I mean. Once and for all." He nodded to lend weight to his words and as if to prove to himself that it really was the case. "Seeing him again... opened my eyes."

 

 _'At least regarding the past,'_ Sherlock thought with a certain degree of resignation. _'When it comes to the present, he's still blind.'_

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

The next day after breakfast, Sherlock simply followed John into the office, and John let him, albeit sighing and rolling his eyes. Even if he would have preferred that Sherlock take it easy a little longer, he was secretly glad to have him at his side again and to be able to rely on his sharp eyes and senses once more. How had he ever got by without Sherlock? It was truly a mystery to him.

 

At first, John kept Sherlock company on the couch - where Sherlock had settled with a rare display of judiciousness. But when Mike joined them a bit later in the day, John took his seat behind the desk, leaving one of the leather armchairs for Mike. It felt strange to sit in his usual spot... at least as long as Sherlock was in the same room. It was crazy how quickly and easily he'd become used to relinquishing his usual seat to Sherlock, and how fast the chair had become Sherlock's place.

 

Out of pure force of habit, John sent for coffee for everyone before remembering that Jacques wasn't there anymore. Oh well - the damage was already done. The coffee would be served and they'd drink it. The black brew the rest of the staff cooked up might taste awful, but at least it contained caffeine - and wasn't that the purpose of coffee? As a caffeine delivery system?

 

But no sooner was the cup with the steaming concoction standing in front of John smelling anything but tempting, than doubts started creeping in. Maybe coffee was more than just a way of getting caffeine. He took a sip and struck through the _'maybe'_ in his mind.

 

Sherlock had absently reached for his cup as well and taken a sip. It was only due to his posh upbringing - which made itself known at the oddest moments - and John's presence that he didn't spit it all back into the cup. He looked up and took in the various expressions of disgust and resignation in the faces of the other two men.

 

"This stuff is no better than dishwater," Sherlock declared. "Why are we drinking this nonpotable swill? And when will Jacques be back?"

 

John and Mike exchanged a quick glance, which didn't escape Sherlock's attention. He himself had never been a target of that look, but he recognised it nonetheless. He'd seen it often enough in other children's parents or teachers when they were considering whether the youngster was old enough to be told there was no Easter bunny. He himself had always known his presents weren't brought by mythical figures, and therefore had never needed to partake in such a conversation.

 

"What?" Sherlock asked in alarm. "What happened to Jacques?"

 

"Jacques isn't coming back," Mike took it upon himself to reply.

 

Sherlock frowned. "Is he dead?" he inquired.

 

"Heavens no!" John interjected. "I had to... Mike thought... I had to throw him out."

 

"Oh," Sherlock said, having first to digest that bit of information. "I hope you didn't fire him because you thought he was spying for Mycroft."

 

"Mycroft?" Mike asked hesitantly before turning to John. "He did that before too. Why doesn't he call the mayor Mr Holmes? Why does he always call him Mycroft?"

 

John waved him off with an animated gesture. "That's immaterial right now."

 

"Why did Jacques have to leave?" Sherlock insisted.

 

"Immaterial?" Mike echoed. "Imma... John - you're starting to use dictionary words again. What are you trying to hide?"

 

"Oh?" Sherlock said in surprise. "That's how to tell whether John's lying?"

 

Mike nodded. "Yes, he always uses those highbrow expressions. Don't you, John?"

 

"Interesting," Sherlock commented.

 

John slapped his hand against the desktop. "Are we talking about Jacques and the coffee or what?!"

 

"Fine," Sherlock acquiesced and leaned back. "Let's talk about Jacques. Why did he have to be let go?"

 

John chewed on the inside of his cheek. "Sherlock... it couldn't go on like that. It simply couldn't go on any longer."

 

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he turned his full attention on Mike, who found himself on the receiving end of an unexpectedly penetrating look from those otherwise so guarded eyes for the first time.

 

He had nothing to offer in return, astonishingly enough, and with one final, apologetic glance in John's direction, he said to Sherlock, "He kept calling you _cocksucker_ , and worse. We couldn't put up with it any longer."

 

The full lips parted in surprise. "Because of me?" Sherlock blurted out. "You fired him because of ME? It's my fault we have to drink this miserable coffee?"

 

"Your fault?" John cried. "Sherlock, that's ridiculous. No one's at fault other than Jacques... and... possibly me," he admitted following a bit of hemming and hawing. "I should have put an end to that behaviour from the start."

 

Sherlock snorted. "Hire the man back. You don't like how the coffee tastes either. And he can call me whatever he wants, I don't care. If you must fire someone, let it be that Anthea. I'm ninety percent certain _she's_ spying for Mycroft."

 

John stared at him, his mouth hanging open. "Anthea?" he asked in shock.

 

"Yes," Sherlock replied with a nonchalant shrug.

 

"But how... why..." Mike stammered somewhat aimlessly.

 

"Oh, that's easy. Since I always check through the invoices, I know how much salary is paid to each employee. Anthea earns good money, but not good enough to be able to replace that knock-off _'Fatek Phillipe'_ she's been wearing for months with a real _'Patek Philippe'_. A special model, no less. Limited edition."

 

"Why didn't you say anything before?" John burst out, fuming.

 

"I wasn't entirely certain..." Sherlock answered calmly. "I noticed the new watch a week ago. I presume no one noticed it other than me. If she'd inherited it or had a new, rich boyfriend, Thomas would have been sure to tell me. I've suspected her for weeks, though, and... I made sure she only found out useless things to pass on to Mycroft. It hasn't done him much good, in other words... and it's cost him a pretty penny," Sherlock concluded, satisfied.

 

"Why is he still saying _Mycroft_?" It seemed Mike simply couldn't let it go.

 

"Who the fuck cares?" John hissed, agitated. "Could you - _please_ \- concentrate on the important bits and show Anthea the door? Now?"

 

As soon as Mike hurriedly left the office on the heels of that very clear order, Sherlock remarked lightly, "Why don't you just tell him Mycroft's my half brother?"

 

John gave Sherlock a long look. "If you really don't care whether he knows or not... well... tell him yourself. But I'll warn you - Mike won't be satisfied with that one bit of information. He'll want to know everything."

 

Sherlock knew John was referring to his past as a homeless drug addict, but that wasn't something Sherlock cared much about becoming public knowledge. His real concern was that Mike might ask questions which would lead to him (and therefore John) finding out about the conservatorship; finding out that Sherlock was powerless to manage his own affairs. No, it would be simpler to let John believe Sherlock only cared about protecting his reputation.

 

And so he returned John's gaze without blinking and said, "Perhaps... it's better in that case if he doesn't find out about it yet."

 

"Perhaps," John agreed with deliberate equanimity.

 

Just then, Sherlock's phone vibrated.

 

 _'Mycroft! The photo!_ ' The thought shot through Sherlock's head, and he flinched before he could help it. It almost felt as if his phone were burning a hole in his jacket pocket, but he held himself in check long enough for Mike to return and inform John of the successful removal of Anthea. But then he couldn't stand it any longer. He excused himself and went to the toilet on the ground floor, where he took out his mobile, fingers fluttering, and opened Mycroft's message.

 

The photo showed a blond man - just like the description both Kitty and John's bodyguards had given. The low bird's-eye view of the image indicated a surveillance camera. It was a surprisingly good photo, given that. Sherlock stared at it, mesmerised. Of course he could show it to John and Mike straight away without checking back with Kitty first... but what if Sherlock were wrong with his suspicion? He stared off into space for a moment... John would identify the man in the photo as Sebastian Moran and presumably rush out on some rash mission, the outcome of which would undoubtedly be Moran's death. So far so good. But what if it turned out Moran wasn't the one who had met with Charlie White? What if it turned out to be nothing more than a fleeting similarity? How many blond men were there in London with close-set eyes and a square jaw? Hundreds? Thousands?

 

Sherlock shook his head firmly. He couldn't take the risk. If John shot the next bureau head after Albright - one he'd hand-picked himself and who had (apparently) saved his life... then John's days in the mob were numbered, and Sherlock didn't particularly want to have to lay a wreath of red roses on John's final resting place.

 

No, he had to be one hundred percent certain before he went to John with his suspicions.

 

With a faintly queasy feeling in his stomach, he forwarded the photo to Kitty's phone. Either way... he'd soon know for sure. He hoped.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

John and Mike spent the rest of the afternoon in a friendly argument over how the household was supposed to function with its now decimated staff, and how soon they would be able to fix things by filling the empty positions.

 

Sherlock had no interest in such things and buried himself in invoices. Domestic problems... they couldn't possibly have mattered less to him. Fortunately, the numbers had a calming effect on him and distracted him from the nerve-wracking wait for Kitty's reply.

 

When Mike said good-bye that evening, he promised to have a look around for a maid, and John promised in return to think about which of Jacques' duties could be relegated to Thomas. Just then, Sherlock's phone buzzed in his trouser pocket.

 

Without bothering himself with the sceptical looks directed his way, he leapt up from the couch, flinched a bit at his protesting muscles, tapped frantically at his phone and finally held it out to John with a stifled shout of joy:

 

"There's Charlie White's backer!" he cried triumphantly.

 

John came over to him and virtually tore the phone out of his hand.

 

"That's Sebastian Moran!" he blurted out, sending a look of confusion in Sherlock's direction.

 

"I know," Sherlock replied lightly, still glowing with pride and relief that this particular threat against John had been deflected - or would be soon enough.

 

"But..." John said, at a loss. "He was the one..."

 

"No possibility of an error?" Mike asked calmly.

 

Sherlock shook his head, smiling. Good old Mike. Always came right to the point. Always focused on what was most important.

 

Mike looked him over with wondering approval. "How in the world did you do that?"

 

"I had help," Sherlock admitted modestly. "A lot of help."

 

"I don't believe it!" John shouted, incensed. "I simply cannot believe it! That goddamned bastard! I'm going to kill him! He's fucked me over for the last time!"

 

Sherlock kept a watchful eye on John's outburst.

 

Yes, that was more or less the reaction he'd expected. It didn't bear thinking what might have happened if that fury had been directed at an innocent party...

 

"John... take it down a notch!" Mike interjected, grasping John's wrist just to be sure.

 

John stared at Mike, still enraged, but then his gaze became calmer and clearer. He took a deep breath and let it out again. "Okay." He gave Sherlock his phone back. "We need to go about this properly. There could be more men behind it." His eyes turned to Sherlock. "Or can we rule that out already?"

 

"No. We can't rule it out," Sherlock answered readily, skilfully concealing his surprise at John's about-face. Was Mike right after all? Had John changed? And if so... was it due to his - Sherlock's - influence? Hard to believe - yet there stood John... not exactly tranquillity personified, but at least he wasn't acting like a man run amok anymore.

 

"Good," said Mike. "We should..."

 

"No," John cut him off. "Before we do anything else, I want to know where..." He made a helpless yet angry gesture. "Damnit, Sherlock - how did you figure out that Moran... I mean … you haven't budged your arse out of this house one single time."

 

"I already told you: I had help."

 

John immediately turned to Mike. "You! You knew!" he cried, his words faintly accusing. "The two of you were conspiring behind my back."

 

"Just a bit," Mike admitted. "But it was for your own good. And this outcome astounds me as much as it does you, John. Sherlock? Why don't you just tell us everything."

 

Sherlock did so, explaining how he'd sniffed out Kitty, how coincidence had led him to a bit of help in the form of Dave and Naresh, and finally how he'd received Kitty's confirmation just a few minutes ago.

 

"I had to go to Mycroft for the photo - but don't worry... I didn't tell him what I needed it for or what it was all about," he ended his report.

 

Mike nudged John. "There," he whispered quite distinctly. "He's doing it again..."

 

"Mike..." John retorted with a long-suffering expression. "Are you going to do that every time someone says _'Mycroft'_?"

 

"Maybe? Why do you ask?"

 

"Because in that case I'm going to send Sherlock up to fetch a rubber ball gag out of the bedroom," John growled, although not in an unfriendly way.

 

Mike lifted both hands in a sign of capitulation. "All right, all right. If it's such a big secret..."

 

"It is," John answered bluntly. "So... how can we get the largest amount of information out of Moran without him playing us or doing even more damage? I'm open for suggestions."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

"So, Mycroft..." John said at the end of that eventful day, once he was alone with Sherlock in the bedroom. "You contacted Mycroft behind my back?"

 

Sherlock, in the middle of taking off his shirt, shot him a look with half-lidded eyes.

 

"Yes - are you angry at me?"

 

"No," John answered calmly and laid out the salve and latex gloves. "But I would have preferred not to owe him anything..."

 

"I could hardly ask _you_ for a picture of Moran," Sherlock said with a shrug.

 

"But you could have asked Mike - the two of you were already in cahoots against me."

 

"I could have," Sherlock admitted with a small sigh. "But... I wanted to do it alone. Well... almost alone." He removed his last article of clothing and stood naked in front of John. An eager gleam came into his eyes. "Still... I did go behind your back. Are you going to punish me now?"

 

"What? No!" John protested. "I..."

 

"No?" Sherlock repeated, stunned.

 

John had to suppress a grin. He'd seen through Sherlock by now, even as the other man threw his hands in the air and cried, "What does a person have to do around here to get a good fucking?"

 

John couldn't hold back the grin any longer. "Get healthy again," he replied mildly. "And now stop pouting and lie down. I want to check whether everything's healing up all right."

 

More or less obediently, Sherlock lay down on the bed, albeit with a doleful expression that had nothing to do with his physical discomfort, and turned onto his side. He automatically pulled up his top leg, allowing John to examine his bottom, as they did every morning and evening.

 

Gentle, expert touches... cool salve... a probing finger...

 

"Looks good as far as I can see," John declared with satisfaction. "I'll give you another suppository - but I think the cream will be enough tomorrow. A couple more days and you'll be as good as new." He carefully introduced the suppository into Sherlock's hole, pushing it a bit deeper with his finger. "There. Done." He gave Sherlock a light slap on one buttock and took off the latex glove. "You can turn over again. Should I get your blue pyjamas..."

 

As soon as Sherlock turned over, John's next words died in his throat.

 

Sherlock's fingers slid sheepishly over his legs and across the sheets. "Sorry," he murmured, indicating his erection with a fleeting gesture. "Your fingers... it felt so good today. I couldn't help it... It'll go away in a minute."

 

"Would be a shame to waste it," John said once he'd recovered his powers of speech.

 

A dark flame flared in Sherlock's eyes, and he ran the tip of his tongue over his plump lips.

 

John smiled. "No, you greedy puss. I'm not putting my dick in you. Not anywhere."

 

An ominous crease appeared on Sherlock's forehead for a fraction of a second, but then something like hopelessness and shame spread across his face.

 

"As I said... it'll go away in a minute," he muttered in a low voice, turning his face away.

 

John sat next to him on the bed and lifted his chin with two fingers. "There are other options." It was ridiculous how quickly Sherlock's face could brighten. Ridiculous and... a little touching. John swung his legs up onto the mattress, leaned back against the head of the bed and propped up the pillows behind his back. "Come here," he said softly to Sherlock. "Here... on my lap." He patted one hand on his thigh to make clear what he meant and extended the other arm in invitation.

 

Sherlock snuggled up to him, his legs stretched out across one of John's thighs while John's other leg supported Sherlock's back. John's arm draped itself around the pale, narrow shoulders.

 

John breathed out small, moist kisses against the uninjured corner of Sherlock's mouth and wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's stiff member. Sherlock gasped and his body stiffened, his muscles tensing.

 

"Relax, Sherlock," John whispered into the dark curls. "Just relax... let go... we can't have you pulling a muscle on top of everything else."

 

"Easy... for you... to say..." Sherlock moaned and arched his hips toward John's fingers as they stroked him.

 

"Ah-ah..." John reprimanded him. "Keep nice and still... and relax."

 

But at John's next motion, Sherlock twitched again and his posture tensed.

 

John sighed. "Sherlock... this is just for you..." he whispered into Sherlock's ear. "All for you... you can come whenever you want... and now just let yourself fall."

 

Sherlock turned his head, and all of a sudden John's mouth was no longer against his ear but against his smiling lips.

 

"Kiss me, John," Sherlock whispered urgently.

 

"Your lip..." John tried to protest. "You still have..."

 

"Kiss me, dammit... I'm not made of glass," Sherlock cursed hoarsely and pulled John's head down to him.

 

Their lips met in a painfully sweet kiss. Sherlock all but melted under John's tongue and mouth, and the tension flowed out of his body. He pressed against John, becoming limp and compliant as the kiss intensified. He drank it greedily from John's lips like a man dying of thirst.

 

John rubbed faster over the hot, hard shaft in his hand, and Sherlock groaned into John's open mouth, although he continued to recline in John's arms, soft and warm and wonderfully calm.

 

"Good boy," John praised him, and felt even more tension leech out of the slender body in his arms. "That's right. Just like that... just lie there... I'll take care of everything..."

 

John increased the pressure of his fingers a bit, and Sherlock pulled away his sinfully willing lips, burying his face in the crook of John's neck with a long, drawn-out moan while still managing to maintain the clingy attitude of an overlarge cat. Sherlock's lips moved against John's skin, whispering something, but no sound reached John's ears. After a while, John thought he recognised a pattern, a certain rhythm, as if Sherlock were repeating the same sentence, the same words, over and over, without saying them out loud.

 

An almost hypnotic calm settled over the two men. Their bodies warmed each other, held each other close, gave each other comfort. It was quiet in the room. Only Sherlock's slow, heavy breathing and the soft slap of skin against skin broke the almost reverent mood. Sherlock hung in John's arms, as if lifeless, and John pulled him closer, felt the pulsing blood under the pale skin, felt the lips murmuring silently into his neck as if in prayer.

 

Sherlock's climax happened without fanfare. There was no sign of it aside from a quick, loud breath against John's shoulder and hot, sticky ejaculate on John's fingers. No twitch, no groan, no contraction either announced or accompanied it. His orgasm was a smooth transition, a threshold that was crossed with barely a notice, and John continued to caress his erection, which was slow to deflate.

 

"Thank you," Sherlock sighed finally, trying to nestle his entire body into John's lap.

 

"My pleasure," John said softly and dropped a kiss on one sweat-dampened temple.

 

"And you?" Sherlock asked, pressing his hip against the hardness between John's legs.

 

"It'll go away in a minute," John joked and pulled a cover up over Sherlock. "Now go to sleep."

 

"But..." Sherlock protested, but he yawned heavily before he could finish the sentence.

 

"Sleep," John said softly and kissed Sherlock's forehead. "You've done enough for today."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_**To be continued...** _

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

More pictures!

 

(And despite all my promises, Sherlock won't be getting those biscuits until the next chapter. But you can probably guess now how that will come about.)

 

<http://lorelei-lee.tumblr.com/post/132075160239/teaser-for-the-next-chapter-of-deflowered>

 

 

 


	41. Acknowledgment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation by the perfect SwissMiss!!!!

**Chapter 41 - Acknowledgment**

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Bridges stopped the car in front of a large, modern office building. He'd never chauffeured his employer to this particular part of the city before; not only that, but the purpose of the outing hadn't been revealed to him yet. That was rather unusual, as John Watson was in the habit of exchanging a few words with his driver during the journey. Today, however, the back seat had remained suspiciously quiet. Not that Mr Watson was a chatterbox by any means, but the total silence was unusual and somehow... peculiar.

 

Bridges thought his boss seemed more pensive than usual. He was also a little pale, and his mouth had a strange sort of decisive set to it. At least as far as Bridges was able to judge from the bits he could see in the rear view mirror. Wherever Mr Watson was headed... it wasn't an appointment he was looking forward to.

 

"Wait for me," his boss said once Bridges had brought the car to a complete standstill. "It won't take more than an hour." Then he got out and approached the building.

 

Bridges watched him for a moment before pulling away again to look for a parking spot for the allotted time. He didn't notice the sign for a certain Dr. Ella Thompson, Psychotherapist, amongst the sea of names of solicitors and investment advisors listed beside the entry.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

When John returned home from his first meeting with Dr. 'Call-Me-Ella' Thompson, Mike was already waiting for him.

 

"Moran's surveillance is all set up and watertight," Mike reported with visible satisfaction. "Sherlock mobilised a few of his contacts... hookers, waiters, vagrants... the same ones that helped him before to track down Moran... and I've also engaged three PIs to shadow Moran in three shifts."

 

"Good." John nodded. It's what the three of them had agreed on earlier. "And the private dicks aren't going to try to double-cross us?"

 

Mike smirked triumphantly. "They wouldn't dare. I may have dropped a hint as to _who_ was hiring them, and the fact that we know where their families live. Each of them has at least two kids. They'll take the threat seriously and do a proper job."

 

"Good," John said again. "If Moran has any backers or other accomplices, this should turn them up."

 

His friend shot him a peculiar look. "Say... is everything all right with you? You seem so..." He broke off with a helpless gesture, ending with "...so apathetic today."

 

"Just tired," John said, brushing him off. Truth be told, his thoughts were still caught up in his talk with 'Call-Me-Ella'. "Where's Sherlock, by the way?" As if on cue, the sound of a violin floated in from the great hall.

 

"That should answer your question," Mike replied. "He wanted to practise a bit."

 

All of a sudden, John thought of his bedroom... where Sherlock had played the violin for him... of the floor where he'd attacked Sherlock like some kind of animal... the bed where he'd hurt Sherlock again... and he knew he'd never manage to be happy in that room in the long run.

 

He also thought of the _single_ nightstand in that room, and the _lone_ lamp that stood on it... and he knew he had to make some changes.

 

"Mike," he said abruptly, "I need an interior designer."

 

"What for?"

 

"I want to do some remodelling upstairs," John answered, gesturing vaguely toward the upper storey.

 

"Oh yeah? What were you thinking of?" Mike asked with polite interest.

 

"It's kind of impractical for Sherlock to have all his stuff in the green room... and I'm sick of having to go across the hall to the toilet. I should have had it redone when I bought it... before I moved in."

 

Mike goggled at him, but all he said was, "Ah ha."

 

John squirmed a little in the face of Mike's amusement. "Don't look at me like that!" he barked, rather gruffly.

 

"How am I looking at you?" Mike asked with an innocent grin.

 

"Like..." John started, only to cut himself off. "I want to tear out a couple of walls... I want a bigger bedroom, a walk-in closet with space for all of Sherlock's things too, and I want an en suite bathroom!" He all but hurled the words in Mike's face. "Any objections?"

 

"No, no," Mike said, still grinning. "It's your house. You don't need to justify anything to me."

 

"Then quit looking at me like that and tell me where I can get an interior designer, the sooner the better."

 

"Why don't you use the same one you used last time?" To Mike's great surprise, John's cheeks turned a pale pink at the suggestion.

 

"That may not be the best idea," John muttered.

 

"I knew it!" Mike crowed loudly. "You diddled that bloke after all!"

 

John shrugged. He seemed embarrassed. "He didn't add it to the bill. And he gave me a discount on the tiles."

 

Mike shook his head in disapproval. "All right... I can try getting in touch with the one Susan hired for our house. Would that be all right with you?"

 

"Thanks, Mike," John said and closed his eyes for a moment. Sherlock had just started to play _'Air'_.

 

"Where'd he get that fiddle from anyway?"

 

John - lost in his own thoughts - answered, "It's not a fiddle, it's a _violin_. And he got it from his brother." As soon as he said the words, he wished he had bit his tongue instead. He was off his game today.

 

Mike stared at him in astonishment. "Sherlock has a brother?"

 

"Yes," John said curtly. "But they don't really get on together. It's Sherlock's violin. His brother just had it sent."

 

"Oh. Well, he doesn't play too bad," was Mike's only reply, to John's surprise and relief. He'd expected Mike to be a bit more curious.

 

"Not bad? He plays like an angel," John corrected his friend.

 

**OooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

"Good evening, Miss Morstan." Greg offered a friendly greeting to the woman behind the reception desk as he entered the waiting area of the mayor's office, laden with a thick binder that was bursting at the seams.

 

"Inspector Lestrade," Miss Morstan replied with an equally friendly nod, despite the fact that she was preparing to put on her coat and Greg's appearance was highly likely to endanger her chances of being able to leave work soon, even at this advanced hour. "I was rather hoping it would be _'good night'_ , however," she remarked with a glance at the window, where the day's deep blue autumn sky had already turned black several hours earlier. "I don't believe you have an appointment."

 

"You know what, Miss Morstan..." Greg lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "...I don't believe I do either." A rather inappropriate twinkle appeared in his eye, but Miss Morstan, the bloom of her youth behind her, was no longer prone to lapsing into schoolgirl giggles; instead, she graced him with a gentle smile.

 

"I just wanted to turn over these documents," Greg said, raising the bulging binder in his hands as evidence. "And maybe have a word or two with Mr Holmes."

 

"I'll see if he has time for you," Miss Morstan offered with good humour.

 

She popped her head into the mayor's office, but Greg couldn't hear anything more than muffled murmurs. After a moment, Miss Morstan stood before him again, bearing the most wonderful words in the English language: "Mr Holmes is expecting you."

 

"Thank you, Miss Morstan," Greg replied with extreme nonchalance before entering Mycroft's sanctum sanctorum. "I hope you told her she can go home," he said sotto voce almost before he'd shut the door behind himself.

 

"I did, in fact," Mycroft answered, then sent a questioning look toward the binder Greg was holding. "And what have we here?"

 

"Recycling," Greg said dryly and let the binder drop to the floor.

 

Mycroft nodded in recognition. "Ah, false pretences, I see. Hadn't we agreed I would let you know when I was... shall we say, _available_ , for certain purposes?"

 

"The last time you were _'available'_ was weeks ago!" Greg complained with a certain amount of heat in his voice as he came closer.

 

A pleasant shiver ran down Mycroft's back. To see Gregory so unrestrained... and to know that lack of restraint was all due to him...

 

"Gregory, that's hyperbole," Mycrof said calmly. "Unmitigated hyperbole, at that."

 

Greg now stood directly in front of the desk, where he leaned forward, his eyes glittering. He grabbed Mycroft's tie and used it to pull him closer.

 

"Unmitigated..." he murmured, drawing the word out. "Good word." Then he lowered his lips to Mycroft's mouth for a hungry kiss.

 

"For God's sake, lock the door and turn the light off," Mycroft demanded as soon as his tongue was released on its own recognizance.

 

"There's nothing I'd rather do..." Greg replied.

 

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Later that same night, Greg lay stretched out on the floor of the office, his head resting on Mycroft's lap. In contrast to Mycroft - who was only naked from the waist down, his upper body almost entirely clothed in shirt and tie - Greg was in a completely textile-free state.

 

As they shared a cigarette, passing it back and forth between their lips, Greg viewed the photos on Mycroft's mobile phone with delight.

 

"Can't believe that's my arse..." Greg murmured from time to time.

 

"I still can't quite fathom how you talked me into that," Mycroft grumbled in a faintly peeved, nasal tone.

 

Greg winked coquettishly up at him. "I can be pretty convincing when I want to be."

 

Mycroft didn't respond to the teasing tone. "Those pictures are to be deleted. Now," he ordered sourly.

 

"Too bad you can't see our faces anywhere..."

 

"That would be the last thing I need!" Mycroft cried. "Delete them right now. You've looked at them all at least three times. That should suffice."

 

"Can I help it if I don't have eyes in the back of my head?" Greg pouted before beginning to grudgingly delete the images, sighing heavily. "Not this one though! Can I keep this one?" he asked hopefully, holding the phone up for Mycroft to see it better.

 

"No! That one's to be deleted too!" Mycroft blurted out in horror. "I must have completely lost my mind..." he said, half to himself.

 

"Delete...delete...delete..." Greg narrated as he did so. "Del... Hey- what's this?" he asked suddenly, sitting up with a start.

 

Mycroft peered at the phone display. It showed the photo of Sebastian Moran which he'd forwarded to Sherlock.

 

"Nobody," he said, waving the question away with calculated disinterest. Gregory didn't need to know everything.

 

"That's not _nobody_ ," Greg whispered, his voice hoarse. "That's one of the blokes that set the bomb off at the ball." He looked up, directly into Mycroft's face. His eyes had taken on a hard, steely gleam. "Where do you have this photo from?"

 

Mycroft's eyes widened. "Are you certain?"

 

"Yeah... I... remember now," Greg answered slowly. He paused a moment before conceding, "At least some of it."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Still half asleep, John reached for his phone, which was ringing on his nightstand.

 

"Yeah?" he answered it, his voice gravelly, but the ringing didn't stop. He stared at the phone in confusion.

 

"Answer it already!" Sherlock complained from under the covers beside him.

 

"It's not mine!" John snapped back, both annoyed and bewildered.

 

"Oh..." Sherlock murmured and scrambled out of bed, his eyes half closed. "Then it must be mine..." His fingers still asleep and his brain not really online, he fished his mobile phone out of the pocket of his trousers where they hung over the back of a chair. He answered it, only to promptly hold the device at arm's length from his ear with a pained grimace.

 

"SO SEBASTIAN MORAN'S NONE OF MY BUSINESS, IS HE?!" Mycroft Holmes' voice roared quite audibly out of the phone into the darkened confines of Sherlock and John's bedroom.

 

"Oh fuck..." John muttered, pulling Sherlock's pillow over his face.

 

"Mycroft's upset," Sherlock announced unnecessarily - glaring at his phone with an accusatory expression as Mycroft's incensed screams continued to tumble out of it. "You talk to him," Sherlock said, went back to the bed and held the phone out to John.

 

Wearily, John took the pillow off his face just in time to hear Mycroft rant: "Sherlock, you lying son of a..."

 

But John refused. "No. You talk to him. He's angry at you, not me."

 

"Coward," Sherlock hissed at John before taking a stab at cutting into Mycroft's furious tirade. "Mycroft... you..."

 

But Mycroft wouldn't listen. "Detective Inspector Lestrade just now identified Moran as one of the bombers at the police ball! How can you say it doesn't concern me!" Mycroft blustered on. "The safety of the public at large is very much..."

 

" _'Just now'_?" Sherlock cut across his brother's wall of words. "JUST NOW?" he repeated. "Is it normal practise for you to hold meetings with him in the middle of the night? Do you always investigate bombings at this hour?"

 

John perked his ears at the word _'bombings'_.

 

"I..." Mycroft started to say, but then his voice failed and Sherlock couldn't hear anything more than the typical dry clicking sound that accompanied a mouth being opened and closed so quickly that the teeth clacked together. "My schedule is too full to pay attention to normal business hours," he rebuked Sherlock snidely.

 

Sherlock tsked in reproof, ignoring Mycroft's objections. He was able to draw his own conclusions. "You and the Inspector? For shame, Mycroft," he remarked with a lascivious grin. The silence on the other end of the line was answer enough.

 

"Do you mean to say Moran not only has Charlie and Kenneth on his conscience... he also has a hand in this bombing fuckery that almost cost me my neck?" John hissed in an undertone. Then he held out his hand insistently.

 

"I'm giving you to John," Sherlock said into the phone before handing it over. Mycroft's clamorous _'I'm not finished with you yet'_ was only faintly audible.

 

"Sherlock did the right thing," John virtually bellowed down the line. "It's my job to even the score with that bastard. He did a whole lot more to me than to you... What? No! What could _you_ have done? Nothing. You might have had him arrested... maybe there would even have been enough for an indictment... and then? Prison? Don't make me laugh. The way things are now... an acquittal would have been much more likely." John listened, his expression grim. "Personal interests? YOU? Bullshit. Stop trying to sell me that crap. No - I don't trust the police any further than I could throw them... and especially not that Donovan. I'm taking things into my own hands. But if you say _'Pretty please with sugar on it'_ I might give you the corpse, and maybe even enough useful evidence for you to look good in the public eye. It might also be more appropriate not to discuss things like this over the phone. Why don't we meet at noon tomorrow in the usual place?"

 

Sherlock chuckled with delight, and John grinned at him.

 

"Well look at that," John said with mock surprise. "He hung up." He pushed the end call button as well.

 

"It doesn't surprise me in the least," Sherlock said serenely. "Mycroft's never asked for anything before in his life. He's always just taken."  
  
John set Sherlock's phone onto the nightstand next to his own. "Personal interests..." He shook his head. "What a load of horseshit. Do you know what personal interest your brother might have in this whole affair?"

 

"Oh, yes."

 

"You do?" John looked up in surprise.

 

"Think a moment, John," Sherlock started to explain. "What time is it? And yet he's together with that Inspector?"

 

"You mean..."

 

"Precisely. Mycroft's _'personal interest'_ is an Inspector at Scotland Yard who answers to the name of Lestrade."

 

John's eyes became round. "Seriously?" he asked, then broke down in incredulous laughter.

 

Sherlock's eyes glittered with amusement. "I'd even go one step further and maintain that the two of them were looking at some sex photos on Mycroft's phone."

 

"Oh, God," John gasped, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. "I don't believe it."

 

"Why not?" Sherlock replied with a shrug. "It's the only explanation I can think of why Mycroft should show someone else his highly personal, highly secret mobile phone... and he must have done so, as there's no other way the Inspector could have come across the picture of Moran. He must have seen it accidentally, since Mycroft would have had no reason to show it to him."

 

"But couldn't your brother have shown this Lestrade the picture just to be sure... because he doesn't trust you?" John countered.

 

Sherlock snorted derisively. "Mycroft thought Moran..." He tried to find the right words. "He thought I'd chosen Moran as your... successor. As my next protector, so to speak."

 

All of a sudden, the bedroom became very quiet.

 

Sherlock turned to John with a question in his eyes, while John continued to lie there on the bed, quite still, steadily returning Sherlock's gaze.

 

"I'm not your protector," John finally said. He sounded annoyed.

 

"No," Sherlock agreed, yet he still felt off-balance. Had he said or done something wrong?

 

"Sherlock... I..." John began, then cut himself off. "You..." he tried again, only to stumble once more. "I want you to move your things out of the green room," were the words that finally found their way out of him.

 

Sherlock felt the blood drain from his face, but he didn't move so much as an inch. "Why?" he asked with a calm he didn't feel.

 

God... what had he done? What had he said to make John throw him out now? Because that's what was going on, wasn't it? This was him being thrown out... every fibre of Sherlock's being fought against it. He wouldn't leave. Absolutely not. There was no question. If John didn't want him in his bed anymore, he'd stay on as an employee. As the butler if need be! He'd even work as a gardener if only he could stay close to John and still see him. Even if John took someone else into his bed... he'd stay even then... although... if he really did end up working as the butler... the chances were good that Sherlock would simply poison whoever ended up being his successor to John's favour.

 

Oblivious to the panic coursing through Sherlock's mind, John traced patterns on the bedsheet with his index finger.

 

"Because I... I told Mike... Well, it's like this... I'm going to remodel a bit up here."

 

"Oh," Sherlock said tonelessly.

 

"Yeah," John said. "And if you... I mean, if you'd like... I want to have a bigger bedroom... with a walk-in closet and an en suite bath and... only if you want it, of course..." He looked up at Sherlock, oddly hesitant and hopeful at the same time.

 

Sherlock blinked. "If I... _want_ it?" he echoed John's words without understanding them.

 

"Yeah," John said, nodding in emphasis as he continued to trace patterns on the sheets, abashed. "I... want you to like it too."

 

"You... you're having the house remodelled... for... _us_?" Sherlock asked slowly, still unable to comprehend what was happening. He wasn't being thrown out. Instead... what? What exactly was John offering him here?

 

"Yeah... I want... I want a walk-in closet, with your dressing gowns hanging next to my suits," John admitted. "A big bedroom... with two nightstands and two lamps and a glass display case for your fid-- for your violin." John took a deep breath. "I want us to be... together."

 

Sherlock looked down at his hands and discovered, to his surprise, that they were shaking.

 

"Yes, that..." He started to speak, but his voice was raw and he had to clear his throat. "That sounds very... that would be wonder-- … Yes, that... I want that too." His throat became tight with emotion, and he found himself unable to utter a single syllable more. He saw relief appear on John's face, and a quiet, happy smile flickered across his lips. Sherlock felt as if he'd received a generous gift he didn't deserve, and didn't know how to react. He had no idea what to do with himself. He was embarrassed, and at the same time he wanted to break out in screams of joy. He wanted to kiss John and put his arms around him and never let go... he wanted to smother him in his embrace and throw himself at his feet and never get up...

 

He didn't do any of that, though. He simply stood there, his eyes lowered, with a grin that was surely nothing short of idiotic, as he attempted to comprehend the new turn his life had taken.

 

John wanted to share his life with him. Truly share it.

 

Sherlock closed his eyes. A prayer of thanks hovered on his tongue, but he had no idea to whom he should address it... what higher power had intended for him to be the recipient of so much happiness? Was his life-long streak of bad luck finally at an end?

 

Did fate really mean well with him for once?

 

He understood then that John would never send him away... and Sherlock slowly began to let himsef hope that... one day... everything would really turn out all right.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

"Mycroft... who were you on the phone with just now?" Greg asked. Mycroft turned back around to him.

 

While Mycroft was still standing half naked in his office with his phone in his hand, Greg had already put on his trousers and lit another cigarette, which he was smoking in short, frantic puffs. His expression was harsh and stand-offish.

 

"We need to be careful," Mycroft responded, both evasive and half lost in thought. "The smoke detectors. A fire alarm would be most unwelcome at the moment."

 

Greg looked up at the ceiling automatically, took note of the discreetly mounted smoke detector, took one more insolent drag and stubbed the cigarette out between his fingers before tossing it onto the conference table where he and Mycroft had been engaged in a passionate embrace just a short while earlier.

 

But now none of that passion was in evidence. Greg's eyes had lost any trace of warmth, instead peering remorselessly at their target.

 

"Who were you talking to?" he repeated impatiently. "You said _Sherlock_... were you just on the phone with your brother?"

 

Mycroft set his phone down on the desk with a long exhale. "Let me get my trousers..."

 

"NO!" Greg cut him off. "I want to know _now_."

 

Mycroft's eyebrows twitched upwards briefly. "All right, fine... I rang my brother."

 

Greg's lips parted as if in slow motion. "Okay... get dressed. I think this is going to be a long story after all."

 

"It is a bit... shall we say, complicated," Mycroft conceded, reaching for the articles of his clothing which were strewn across the floor. The procedure of putting them on gave him enough time to come up with a strategy for the upcoming cross-examination which he was no doubt about to have to endure.

 

"So your brother's alive," Greg remarked when Mycroft had done up the last button on his trousers.

 

"Oh yes," Mycroft replied, as if that fact were a great trial for him. "Not only that, but he's the picture of good health."

 

"What does your brother have to do with this bomber?"

 

Mycroft sighed softly. "Sherlock didn't know he was the one responsible for the bombing..."

 

"But he must have known something!" Greg interrupted him curtly.

 

"Of course... but he preferred to keep mum on that score," Mycroft replied. "Not only that - he lied to me when I inquired further."

 

"Just a second..." Greg shook his head in bewilderment. "That sounds as if... YOU were the one who sent him that picture? For no reason?!"

 

"I already said he lied to me," Mycroft said in an attempt to deflect the accusation. "He gave me a name - Sebastian Moran - and wanted me to provide him with a photograph of the man. I really can't tell you any more than that."

 

Greg's eyes narrowed to slits. "Can't... or don't want to?" he pressed.

 

"A little of both," Mycroft allowed.

 

"I WAS RIGHT!" Greg roared so abruptly that Mycroft flinched. "I was right all along! Your brother is none other than Sherlock Sigerson - Doc Watson's _consigliere_." He threatened Mycroft with his index finger. "And don't you dare lie to me again!"

 

"Sherlock has lived under his mother's name for years," Mycroft admitted. "We only have our father in common."

 

Greg ground his teeth. "That's why he never showed up in any reports under the name of Holmes. I get it." He rubbed the back of his neck and his throat with one hand. "Shit," he cursed under his breath and stuck another cigarette between his lips.

 

"Gregory..." Mycroft reproached him gently, silently indicating the smoke detector in the ceiling.

 

"Shit!" Greg swore again and hurled the cigarette at the ground. "The mob's got you by the balls and I can't even have a fag."

 

"The mob certainly doesn't have me..." Mycroft cut himself off with a disapproving click of his tongue. "...at any rate. We have a kind of... _agreement_. A non-aggression pact, if you will."

 

"I don't want to be dragged into it!" Greg demanded. "Do you hear me?!"

 

"I don't want that either," Mycroft assented. "However, I'm afraid that can't be avoided in the long run."

 

Greg stared at him wordlessly and ran both hands through his hair before finally saying, "That's why you didn't come see me in hospital. To keep me out of the line of fire."

 

Mycroft gave him a thin smile. "Your superiors have underestimated you for years. Your acumen is quite remarkable. You should have been promoted much earlier."

 

"You know why that never happened..." Greg pointed out, wincing. "Stepped on too many toes..."

 

"The last honest copper..."

 

"I was... until I let myself get mixed up with a corrupt politician whose brother works for the mob and who covers up all of Doc Watson's crimes with the help of the police."

 

Lestrade had spoken softly, yet his voice was suffused with bitterness. "Am I correct in the assumption that that bozo Dimmock was responsible for the lion's share of it?"

 

"I simply wanted peace and order on the streets. For London... for the citizens..."

 

Greg shook his head. "You don't need to recite a campaign speech to me." He plucked his jacket up from one of the chairs and went to the door. "And another thing... I don't need to be protected! Especially not by you! I can take care of myself quite well, thank you very much. I've done pretty well on my own for years now."

 

Mycroft watched him, both angry and a little hurt. "If you want to leave, I will of course accept your decision. But you should know that if you do so, that door will remain closed to you in future."

 

Greg stopped where he was and turned around. "That's it then?" he asked, indignant. "You're just going to let me go?"

 

"Yes," Mycroft answered simply.

 

"You're not going to try and stop me?"

 

"You're a grown man..." Mycroft declared. "If you want to leave, I'm not going to stop you. I simply wanted to make you aware of the consequences of your actions."

 

Doubt appeared on Greg's face. He stayed where he was, undecided.

 

Then he took one more step toward the door, only to turn back around immediately and go over to Mycroft, his strides quick and angry.

 

He pressed a hard kiss onto those thin lips and murmured, "You're not going to stop until you've corrupted me through and through, are you?"

 

"That was never my intention," Mycroft objected. "You seem to forget it's your fundamental integrity that I find so attractive."

 

Greg's lips lowered to cover Mycroft's mouth once more. It tasted faintly of desperation. But Mycroft didn't care... at least not much. Greg had relented - that was the only thing that mattered. It was, however, astounding that his methods - the same ones that had served him well when dealing with a pre-pubescent Sherlock - appeared to work on a grown Inspector too. Astounding... but good to know. At the same time, Mycroft had observed often enough how compliant people could become when threatened with the withdrawal of affection - or when deprived of positive acknowledgments. How easy they were to manipulate then.

 

The most important thing, though, was not to overdo things; tractability could turn into hatred quite easily... easily and, in general, irrevocably. That was something else he'd learned from Sherlock. But he'd been young himself back then. Now he was older and wiser. A misstep - a miscalculation - like that wouldn't happen to him again.

 

To be sure, he'd expected a bit more... _backbone_ from Gregory, but he wasn't about to complain about it - not as long as Gregory's weakness assured him the upper hand in their relationship.

 

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_"Mycroft! I'm learning to play the fiddle now too!"_

 

_Mycroft looked at his younger brother by seven years, betraying no emotion. "Violin," he corrected him pedantically._

 

_"Violin," Sherlock repeated obediently and with the eyes of a dog who had fetched the stick and was now waiting for its master's praise._

 

'Don't hold your breath,' _Mycroft thought to himself. Although Sherlock's zealous obedience was rather practical. It was a wonderful way of keeping him off his back. Whenever Mycroft sent him away, he went without complaint. He did hang his head a bit... but he left, and Mycroft had peace and quiet again. Still, it was important to toss the boy a crumb of approval once in a while. Otherwise his docility wouldn't last long._

 

_The only problem was striking the right balance. "Very good, Sherlock. But why the violin?"_

 

_Sherlock's childish face lit up. "Because I want to be like you when I get big," he babbled, brimming with eagerness._

 

_Mycroft smiled sourly. All this adoration and deference was almost ridiculous. Especially as he'd never given Sherlock any cause for it._

 

_"...and we can play together and practise together and..."_

 

_"Sherlock, that's not going to be possible," Mycroft interrupted the flow of words._

 

_It was absurd how quickly the joy on Sherlock's face crumpled. "Why not?" he asked, downcast, appearing more and more like a puppy that had been kicked._

 

_"You're not good enough," Mycroft informed him in a not entirely unfriendly manner._

 

_"Oh!" Sherlock said, his forehead creasing as he thought hard. "Then I'll practise a whole lot and I'll be good enough really soon!" he cried, full of enthusiasm once more. "When I'm good enough, will you play with me then?"_

 

 _Mycroft coolly returned the look in those pleading eyes._ 'Really, just like a dog...' _he thought to himself dispassionately, feeling himself justified in his assumptions._ 'So be it - then let us begin with the training. Time for those crumbs...'

 

_"Perhaps," Mycroft offered the possibility. "If you truly practise quite a lot and..."_

 

_"I'll start right now!" Sherlock shouted and ran out of the room._

 

_A short while later, the sounds of a violin being tortured rang through the house._

 

_Mycroft stuffed cotton in his ears and sighed. At least the urchin would be thus occupied for several years and not keep coming back to bother him._

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

When John Watson and Mycroft Holmes sat across from each other the next day in the usual house, on their usual couches, they both rather quickly laid their cards on the table, forgoing most of the usual chit-chat, and exchanged what information they had.

 

Up to now, John's intelligence on Moran hadn't yielded any hints as to who might be backing him, but John had been aware from the start that this was going to be a long-haul game. The whole thing with Albright's nephew and Charlie had been too clever.

 

Unfortunately, Inspector Lestrade hadn't been able to contribute anything more toward solving the bombing either. He hadn't noticed any identifying characteristics other than the fact that the second accomplice had black hair and was a bit shorter than Moran. His memory was continuing to play some rather unpleasant tricks on him regarding the night of the attack.

 

Following the exchange of these meagre facts, Mycroft finally agreed to leave any further investigation of the affair to John. Mycroft simply asked that John follow through on his promise regarding the body and evidence.

 

Mycroft had himself well enough under control that he didn't start making accusations about how Sherlock had lied to him in all this, and John in return didn't make any insinuations about Mycroft's _'personal interests'_.

 

They parted - not exactly as friends, but with a certain mutual understanding in place between them. John wondered, though, how long this rather unstable détente would last. They still needed each other... they were virtually allies in the fight against a common enemy... but how would things go when that enemy had been routed and defeated? Donovan would still be there, making John's life hell, and Mycroft wouldn't be able to do anything about it. Looked at from that angle, Mycroft hadn't been fulfilling his part of the deal - protecting John from the police - for quite some time already. John didn't feel he was necessarily bound to his concessions in that case either.

 

Call-Me-Ella would probably trot out her favourite diagnosis here... _'Trust issues'_.

 

There was a kernel of truth in there, but it came with the territory for John. He trusted Mike and Sherlock, and nobody else, and that was good. An overtrusting mob boss would quickly become a dead mob boss.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

The next few days for John and Sherlock were filled with the first visits from the interior designer, bad coffee, a rather agitated Thomas, a very overworked Eleanor, the fruitless search for new staff members who lived up to both Mike's and John's standards with regards to first-class service, letters of recommendation, discretion, and loyalty, waiting for reports on Sebastian Moran, and setting up a large-scale diamond smuggling operation.

 

Concurrently to all that, Sherlock fetched his few worldly possessions from the green room and stuffed them haphazardly into John's bedroom, which was starting to lose its sterile, impersonal hotel-room character and look more like a stylish Bohemian flat (with a slight tendency to messiness). At least Sherlock managed - in his opinion - to find a space for everything. The only problem was finding somewhere to store his greatest treasure, his most prized possession: where should he put John's handkerchief? The handkerchief he'd given to Sherlock so many months ago to dry his bitter tears, and which Sherlock had simply kept... the handkerchief which had comforted him on those first few nights in the big, strange house... the handkerchief he'd hidden so carefully under the mattress of the bed in the green room, only taking it out from time to time when he felt particularly lonely.

 

That handkerchief.

 

Where should he put it now?

 

He didn't want John to catch him with it... find it... discover it... worst case, he'd take it away... at best, he'd laugh at Sherlock's sentimentality. Neither option was very high on Sherlock's wish list. His eyes swept uncertainly around John's bedroom until he finally decided - unenthusiastically and only due to a lack of any better options - to conceal the handkerchief in the lining of his violin case. The satin had come off a bit in one place anyway, so it wasn't very difficult to pull it away even more to create a gap between the lining and the box where he could stuff the scrap of material.

 

When Sherlock was done, he decided he didn't find the idea half bad after all.

 

He liked the thought more and more of having the two most important things he owned in the same place.

 

John didn't say anything about the chaos in his bedroom, limiting himself to threatening Sherlock with horrendous acts of reprisal should he turn their new rooms into a pigsty as well. Sherlock acknowledged the threats with an impassive shrug and a provocative smile and rang for Thomas to clear away their used dishes.

 

John and Sherlock generally spent their evenings poring over the designer's initial plans and designs. They argued, they laughed, they made decisions together. It was an unfamiliar experience for Sherlock. Unfamiliar, but not at all unpleasant. There hadn't been many occasions in his life when he'd been asked for his wishes and opinions... and even fewer where his wishes and opinions had then been fulfilled.

 

And there was something else that was different and unfamiliar for Sherlock. It wasn't unusual for them to have sex together every night; but it was new for John to turn off the lights every time and dispense with all the ingredients that had characterised and shaped their sexual activity up to now.

 

It was disconcerting to be brought to climax in such a gentle, almost tender manner, especially as Sherlock had been convinced he would never (or barely) experience desire without dominance, without pain, and without a certain degree of humiliation... and most certainly that he would never achieve orgasm like that.

 

But John was an eternal source of surprise for him, and Sherlock reached and experienced sexual satisfaction every time - almost without trying. On the surface, it may have seemed that those climaxes weren't anywhere near as strong, breathtaking, and sensually devastating as the ones brought forth by means of deprivation and pain. But it was precisely the lack of those components that lent Sherlock's orgasms a different quality... they were more intense and in a certain way more intimate than anything Sherlock had experienced before. And so, to his eternal amazement, he didn't miss anything - at least not at this juncture in his life.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

The surveillance on Moran still wasn't returning the hoped-for results, but John was a poster boy for patience. He'd get the bastard on the hook sooner or later, along with everyone who'd helped him.

 

Now that he knew Moran was a traitor, though, he kept noticing little things... plans that Moran was involved in never went awry. Never. No matter how small and insignificant his part was. Transactions that John carried out alone or with the help of others were usually exposed by the police, or only succeeded by the narrowest of margins.

 

It wasn't too obvious, especially because Moran never bragged about it, preferring to remain in the background behind John. To John's mind, that was bloody clever. Moran's successes were subliminal messages... information that didn't scream out its presence but that was nevertheless visible to all concerned. He was certain Moran was just waiting for the right moment to play his trump card and make John look like a failure. This made him more aware than ever that he could never count on the police again, and Donovan was dead certain to be working with Moran in some capacity. At least John hoped that it was _only_ Moran, and he wasn't nourishing any more vipers at his bosom within the mob organization.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

The first group of tradespeople descended on John's house, distributing dirt and dust throughout the house with all the skill associated with their profession, not only where they were working but also in rooms they never so much as set foot in. It was a mystery that fascinated Sherlock despite himself, and glazed over the inconvenience of having a burgeoning construction site in the house, at least for a few days.

 

It was harder on John, however, and after three days of watching him frown over his breakfast tea in the morning and sigh as he took tiny sips of his coffee - which had achieved the status of being drinkable if not enjoyable - every afternoon, Sherlock decided to do something about it.

 

When Mike said good-bye to them early that evening to head home, Sherlock accompanied him to the front hall; both Mike and John observed this with some degree of mistrust, as it was completely out of line with Sherlock's usual behaviour. But John let him go... his thoughts were occupied these days with a box containing a special order that had been delivered by his jeweller, and which now lay in the bottom drawer of his desk, commanding nearly all of his attention. After all that had happened and after the conversations he'd had with Call-Me-Ella, he wasn't at all certain this was the right gift, and whether he should even give it to Sherlock at all.

 

Out in the entryway, Mike gave Sherlock an inquisitive look. "So? Are we keeping secrets from John again?" The beginnings of a smile flickered at the corners of his mouth.

 

"Hire Jacques back," Sherlock demanded without mincing words. "Immediately," he added to underscore how serious he was.

 

"But..."

 

"John hasn't enjoyed his coffee since Jacques left. That cannot be allowed to continue. Without all the workers in the house and without the affair with Moran it might have been all right... but now?" Sherlock shook his head, making his dark curls dance. "John needs his coffee."

 

"But Sherlock, you..." Mike objected, but Sherlock didn't let him finish.

 

"Mike... I don't care what Jacques says about me behind my back." Sherlock's words were slow and clear and entirely calm - he even came across as a bit detached. "I wouldn't even care if he said it to my face. It doesn't disturb me in the least. As long as John gets his preferred coffee again, I really couldn't care less."

 

Mike tilted his head thoughtfully. "Sherlock... I don't know... I can ask John what he thinks..."

 

"No, no, no," Sherlock broke in vehemently. "Don't go checking with John! Didn't you just recently give a rather moving little speech to the staff in which you instructed them to follow my orders? Without checking back with John?"

 

"Now how do you know about that?" Mike cried.

 

"I have my sources," Sherlock replied with a sardonic little smile.

 

"I'll bet it was Thomas," Mike grumbled. "The bugger just can't keep his mouth shut."

 

"It was Mrs Turner, but that's neither here nor there. Will you re-hire Jacques?"

 

"Yeah, I will..." Mike agreed. "But..."

 

Sherlock raised one eyebrow. "No buts. You want to set a good example, don't you? Or am I really so wrong about you? Don't go asking John. I want Jacques to be hired back and your only question should be _'with or without a pay rise'_."

 

"A pay rise? Anything else?" Mike exclaimed. He was starting to get worked up, but calmed himself again in the face of Sherlock's unusually stern glare. "All right, fine. So I'll hire him back. But you're the one who's going to tell John about it. It's on your head."

 

Sherlock's smile deepened. "You can leave John to me," he declared smugly. "He's in good hands with me."

 

"Fine. If that's how you want it. But don't be surprised if the staff starts dancing to the beat of their own drums from here on out. You're sending mixed messages." Mike simply wasn't able to refrain from making that last comment.

 

"Who cares about keeping the message straight when John's not enjoying his coffee?" Sherlock retorted flatly and strutted back into the office.

 

He answered John's silent query with an abrupt "I told Mike to hire Jacques back."

 

John's eyes widened in surprise. "Sherlock... are you sure?"

 

"Yes," Sherlock replied curtly. His expression remained shuttered. It was clear he didn't want to talk about it any more. But John also saw the faint insecurity in the tiny crease over Sherlock's nose, the one that always appeared when Sherlock wasn't sure whether what he'd done was one hundred percent correct.

 

John didn't know how to respond to Sherlock's monosyllabic reply, so instead he reverted to what he'd originally planned to do, taking the box out of the drawer and setting it on the desk.

 

"I have something here for you."

 

The effect that action had on Sherlock was astonishing. From one moment to the next, the expression on his face became one of delighted and incredulous wonder.

 

"For me?" It came out as barely more than a whisper, and if John hadn't seen those plush lips move, he would have been convinced he'd only imagined the two words.

 

"Yes, that's what I said," John affirmed. "Open it."

 

But Sherlock continued to stand there, unmoving, in front of the desk, blinking back and forth between the box and John.

 

Finally, he said, "You remembered."

 

 _'Remembered...?'_ John asked himself, not understanding what was meant, until it hit him like a bolt out of the blue. He'd won Sherlock's virginity in the auction at Miss Adler's brothel exactly one year ago that night. His thoughts raced feverishly through his mind. Of course he _hadn't_ remembered. What should he do now? Lie? Or tell the truth?

 

Sherlock's pale eyes were watching him with so much naked hope that John felt like the biggest arse ever. But then he wasn't such a big arse as to frivolously ruin Sherlock's fantasy. He secretly wondered what Call-Me-Ella would say about it at their next session.

 

"How could I forget that day?" John finally said, his voice soft, and at least it wasn't a complete lie.

 

Sherlock's gaze melted a bit more at those words, and he reached out hesitantly for the box, as if he still couldn't believe it. He undid the ribbon and lifted the lid. Without saying a word, he stared at the gleaming golden object.

 

John's jeweller had outdone himself. The shape of Sherlock's favourite plug had been reproduced perfectly. The conical form with its rounded bulges in different diameters brought to mind a rudimentary fir tree. The largest bulge of the plug ended in a narrow handle that was a bit longer than usual, which meant the plug sat deeper in the body than would be the case with other models - and that it thus was better able to reach Sherlock's prostate. The handle was capped by a flat, round handle into which John's initials had been engraved. The high-quality metal which John had insisted on had been additionally plated in gold. John had never bought a more expensive toy than that plug. But if it made Sherlock happy, he wasn't about to regret the expense.

 

John licked his upper lip nervously. Why wasn't Sherlock saying anything? Did he not like it? Of course, he didn't and was just too polite to say anything. No, stop... since when was Sherlock polite? But he'd probably expected a more... romantic present for the occasion. Okay, that was a little... weird. After all, they weren't in a romantic relationship and...

 

But then Sherlock looked up at John, and when John saw the light in Sherlock's eyes and the smile slowly unfurling on his face, all of his mixed-up thoughts unravelled and dissolved like wisps of fog in the sun. His misgivings and concerns disappeared so completely that John forgot them entirely - as if he'd never had them in the first place.

 

"You like it?"

 

Sherlock nodded, lifted the plug from its bed of satin and ran his fingers with something akin to reverence over the two entwined letters engraved on the handle. He closed his eyes, sighing beatifically.

 

"It's wonderful," he breathed out.

 

"No, _you_ 're wonderful," John corrected him, and Sherlock gave him a shy smile.

 

All of a sudden, Sherlock pressed the plug into John's hand. "Put it where it belongs," he growled in John's ear, sliding the full length of his body against John's.

 

"Now?" John asked, pretending to frown, even though he was already on fire inside, the flames fanned even higher by the heat in Sherlock's eyes. "We still have work to do."

 

"Yes, now," Sherlock insisted, licking John's earlobe. "Make me your property."

 

"Oh, God... " The words slipped out of John. And no, that wasn't a whimper. John Watson did not whimper. It was a moan, at most. A very manly moan. But the subconscious notion of making Sherlock his by having him wear an object with John's name on it had been present from the very start. To hear it stated out loud... in that voice... so full of desire, so full of longing...

 

Yes: he wanted it too. And just like Sherlock, he wanted it now. He wanted to see it right away. Wanted to see the warm gold set off against Sherlock's fair skin. Wanted to see Sherlock glow and tremble beneath his hands. Wanted to see his initials in Sherlock's most intimate place... wanted to mark him... stake a claim... a claim that was that much sweeter because it was secret, something only the two of them knew about...

 

"I just have to... lube or Vaseline..." John whispered, his voice rough, and felt Sherlock's smile against his cheek.

 

"On the bookcase. Behind the commentary on the German narcotics code. I thought we'd probably need some in here eventually."

 

John ran his tongue across his upper lip. "I don't know if I should be shocked or pleased by your depravity."

 

Sherlock gave him an impish grin. "I think I can answer that for you..."

 

"Cheeky," John rebuked him, but he went and fetched the tube of lubricant gel from behind the book. "Trousers down, pants too, hands on the desk, legs apart," he commanded, not wasting words, his eyes glittering greedily.

 

Sherlock complied with the instructions, displaying every sign of eagerness. John watched him attentively, noting that Sherlock's pants sported a large damp spot and that the head of his half-mast erection was already gleaming.

 

"You're dripping like a leaky faucet again," he teased Sherlock in a reproachful tone and smacked him on his bare behind.

 

Sherlock leaned his hands on the desk and sent John a rather disdainful look over his shoulder. "What's wrong with that? That's precisely what you like so much about me..." he remarked, quite perceptively, and spread his legs in invitation as far as his trousers would allow, bunched as they were around his ankles.

 

"You're never going to learn to control yourself, are you?" John asked hoarsely and rubbed two fingers across Sherlock's hole, which was still wonderfully soft and loose from their activities the night before.

 

"And forego something that never fails to arouse you? I'd have to be an idiot," Sherlock answered dryly, only to break out in a soft moan when John's fingers suddenly slipped inside and stretched him. When John added another finger not soon after, the moan turned into a breathless gasp. "That's... enough... Put it in me... come on!"

 

"You're forgetting your place," John reproached him sternly as he revelled in twisting his fingers inside Sherlock's trembling body.

 

"No... John... please... I'm going to come otherwise," Sherlock tried to explain in a strangled voice. "I don't want... I don't want to come... not yet... I want to feel it inside first... have it in me... as long as possible..."

 

John slowly extracted his fingers from the heated body. "So you want to sit here... for hours... with a plug in your arse and a hard-on in your pants?" He had to swallow hard, as the mere thought of such a scenario made his throat go dry with arousal. "Without doing anything about it? You just want to keep working and be... turned on the whole time?"

 

"Yes, please," Sherlock pleaded with feeling, and before John could think twice about what he was doing or why now, for the first time in his life, he felt the need to do anything like it, he sank down onto his knees behind Sherlock's spread legs and pressed his mouth against the pre-stretched ring of muscle.

 

The soft skin was warm and covered with a light film of perspiration. A musky, salty-sour scent filled his nose. But because he knew how fastidious Sherlock was with his personal hygiene, it didn't bother him. He licked the warm, moist skin with his tongue until it finally slipped inside where everything was hot and tight. He felt like a pilgrim worshipping on his knees before the altar of his god.

 

Above him, Sherlock let out a cry of surprise. "Oh, God... J-John... wh-what... are you doing? Sh-shouldn't I... Oh Godddd..." A long, drawn-out moan punctuated Sherlock's stammered sob. It sounded as if he were utterly overwhelmed.

 

John made his tongue as long and narrow and stiff as he could and delved further inside Sherlock.

 

The sounds that Sherlock made were barely human anymore - they had more in common with the whimpers, yips, and howls of a wolf.

 

"No... please... don't..." Sherlock finally managed to get out, and John pulled back for a brief moment to ask, " _Don't stop_ or _don't go on_?"

 

But Sherlock was too overcome, too worked up to answer the question, and John took advantage of that fact in order to ignore Sherlock's earlier request not to let him come, instead continuing with his erotic torture. It was selfish of him and probably a bit not good... but John wanted Sherlock to climax with his tongue in his arse. It was as if John were intoxicated by the notion... by the image.

 

His tongue found its way back inside Sherlock's body, as his left hand slid down Sherlock's groin. No sooner had John's fingers made contact with Sherlock's wet, slippery glans than Sherlock emitted an inarticulate cry, and John's hand became damp and sticky with Sherlock's sudden, strong orgasm.

 

John retracted his tongue and ran it across his own teeth in order to loosen up the muscles after the unaccustomed exertion, only to make a face which Sherlock, fortunately, couldn't see. Not that he had anything against Sherlock's own flavour, but the lubricant gel tasted terrible... and yet... if it enabled him to reduce Sherlock to a whimpering, quivering, snivelling heap of desire within mere seconds... he'd do it again in a heartbeat.

 

He dropped one last kiss onto the gently pulsating opening then stood up and reached for the plug on the desk with his right hand, but before he could find something clean to wipe off his left hand with, Sherlock's fingers had clamped down around John's wrist and brought it to his mouth.

 

When Sherlock began devoutly licking his fingers and palm clean, John had to bite down on his lips in order to stop himself from attacking Sherlock and blindly satisfying his own lust. He'd already demonstrated his dominance by ignoring Sherlock's original request... that was enough. More than enough. Sherlock didn't want a fuck; he wanted the plug. And he was going to get it.

 

When Sherlock released his hand with one last kiss on the inside surface, John positioned the plug with a practised motion. One slight twist, and the gold-plated metal slid easily - despite its various protuberances - into Sherlock's body, which was so thoroughly relaxed it seemed to virtually suck up the foreign object, his muscles lazily hugging the thin metal shaft at the end until the handle rested snugly against Sherlock's entrance.

 

The gold shimmered gently against the pale skin, and John's fingers ran over the engraving there with something akin to reverence - as well as a certain pride of ownership.

 

_JW_

 

The only thought in his head was: _'Mine_!'

 

And that thought filled him with a profound satisfaction. The plug would stimulate Sherlock, keeping him in a constant state of low arousal, filling him up, making him aware every single second where he belonged... and to whom he belonged...

 

"Do you want to see it too?" he asked, and when Sherlock nodded eagerly - albeit starting to show signs of exhaustion - John took out his phone and snapped a picture. Then he passed the phone to Sherlock, who hadn't yet moved, still standing bent over the desk with his legs apart.

 

His breath caught for a moment as he admired the image on the screen. He straightened up a bit and felt for the handle of the plug with his right hand. His fingers touched the engraving, and he closed his eyes with a deep, heart-felt sigh.

 

"Thank you," he whispered.

 

In spite of all the wildly fluttering emotions in his bosom, John turned Sherlock around to face him, embraced him gently, and kissed him as carefully as if he were a one-of-a-kind artefact made of the most precious Venetian glass.

 

"Are you angry?" John asked between two kisses.

 

"Should I be?" Sherlock returned the question, frowning slightly.

 

"I did make you come... even though you..."

 

"When it comes to what's best for me... you've been right more often than I have in the past," Sherlock replied easily. "Trust me... if I hadn't wanted it... I still could have kicked you in the shins." And after a short pause, he added, "Like Peggy Brown."

 

The next kiss was slightly off, as John was somewhat shaken by Sherlock's _'trust me'_ \- he knew that he didn't quite trust Sherlock as much as he'd thought he did. Also, the mention of Peggy Brown in this context gave him a case of the giggles.

 

But Sherlock was persistent, and he was eventually able to smother John's worries - including those he didn't know he had - with more kisses.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Two days later, John and Mike were out making further preparations for the upcoming diamond smuggling operation. No sooner had they left than Jacques arrived and resumed his duties.

 

Sherlock was aware of this because Thomas came in, unsummoned, to inform him. The news didn't really have any particular effect on Sherlock. His only reaction was a quick sigh at the thought that John - and he himself - would once again be able to indulge in their habitual coffee following dinner that night.

 

Sherlock hadn't expected to see Jacques at all before dinner - after all, the butler had done everything he could to avoid him earlier - so he was rather surprised when he looked up to see Jacques suddenly standing in front of him in John's office. Sherlock frowned and checked his watch. Was it later than he'd thought? Already time for dinner? As early as the sun was setting these days, it was quite possible he'd lost track of the time. The monthly accounts were due, and Sherlock had been pawing through the receipts of every division since that morning. But no... it was still late afternoon.

 

Sherlock raised one eyebrow in query, but remained seated calmly behind John's desk.

 

Jacques cleared his throat, his fingers twitching nervously before they came to a perfectly controlled rest at his trouser seam - just as was expected of a model butler.

 

“Mr Stamford made it clear to me that you lobbied for my re-instatement personally,” Jacques said guardedly and lowered his eyes. Sherlock tuned out most of the verbose statements that followed, only catching a word or two here and there _: 'children... family... mortgage...reliant on the salary...no other offers...'_ Finally, he ended his speech with a heartfelt “Thank you, sir.”

 

Sherlock blinked slowly. Very slowly. Then he gathered himself enough that he was able to give a more or less coherent reply.

 

“Like John, I don't place any particular value on you addressing me as _'sir'_. As far as I'm concerned, you may continue to call me a _cocksucker_. John says it to me often enough that it's likely to be true... and there shouldn't be any punishments meted out for speaking the truth.”

 

Then he turned back to his invoices, as it wasn't in his nature to keep kicking his opponent when he was down.

 

The door clicked softly, indicating that Jacques had left the office as unobtrusively as he'd entered.

 

Sherlock decided not to overestimate the importance of what had just happened. Jacques was back - there would be coffee again... that was the only thing that interested him in all this.

 

However, if Sherlock had so much as suspected that Jacques would refer to him - no sooner had he entered the kitchen and encountered Mrs Turner - as _'Seigneur Sigerson'_ , attributing to him an _'eminently noble and distinguished character'_ , even going so far as to crown his tribute by comparing Sherlock to a _'true prince'_ , he would never have been able to muster the necessary calm and focus to complete his work on the accounts.

 

Following dinner, however, Sherlock started to get the sneaking suspicion that he embodied Jacques' new tin god, and as such was at the mercy of the butler's particular brand of adulation; for when Jacques brought in the coffee, Sherlock's saucer boasted not one, but two of the delicate almond biscuits, whereas John was only served one of the confections, as usual.

 

Sherlock didn't remark on it, nor did he let Jacques see any reaction on his part - and although he honestly didn't care (or at least he'd told himself so for all those months when he had been deemed unworthy of the butler's favour in the form of a biscuit), the silent acknowledgment did provide him with a certain amount of satisfaction... as well as a quiet, almost childlike joy.

 

When Jacques had left Sherlock and John alone in the living room, John looked up from his cup, from which he had already taken the first pleasurable sip. His gaze fell on Sherlock's saucer, and he did a double-take.

 

“Hold on... why do you get two biscuits?” John gave voice to his astonishment.

 

“I haven't the foggiest notion,” Sherlock declared with a thin smile. “Do you want to have them?” he asked, lifted his cup from the saucer and slid the latter across the table to John. “I don't mind.” Surprisingly, that was the pure, unvarnished truth. It was the gesture that counted for Sherlock. Not the tidbits in his mouth.

 

John started to reach for the biscuits automatically, only to pull his hand back. “No. Those are yours. You've waited for them long enough,” John said slowly, thus answering the question Sherlock had asked himself from time to time over the past few weeks and months. John had known how Jacques was treating him the whole time and had decided to ignore it.

 

Sherlock thought about how that made him feel. Did the knowledge hurt? Should it hurt? Or was it more important that John had the courage to admit his lapse now?

 

Just like that afternoon, Sherlock decided to be generous and close the door on the past. John was remodelling his house... for him... for the two of them... John was willing to embark on a new chapter, and Sherlock wanted to do the same. A new start. With a shared bathroom and a shared biscuit.

 

“We'll simply split the third one,” Sherlock announced, held one half of the delicate baked good between his teeth and leaned across the table to John, who closed his lips around the other half of the biscuit with a grateful smile.

 

Afterwards, Sherlock wouldn't have been able to say how Jacques' cooking tasted. The effect John's kisses had on him overshadowed everything else.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_**To be continued...** _

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

 _Seigneur_ \- Master

 

(I've used _seigneur_ instead of _monsieur_... both words mean 'mister', but I feel like _seigneur_ is more formal, as it can also mean Lord (God) in a religious context.)

 

There. I hope you guys are satisfied now. Sherlock got his biscuit!

 

 

 


	42. The Will of Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation by the most awesome SwissMiss!!!

 

oooOOOoooOOoooOOOooo

 

**Chapter 42 - The Will of Man**

 

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

 

Four men sat in the car, which stopped in front of one of the seemingly endless blocks of row houses in London's Chelsea neighbourhood.

 

The driver was obviously of Indian extraction - but that was the only point of note about the vehicle, and not even that fact gave the few passers-by cause on that rainy morning to look twice inside the car.

 

If they had, they would have seen John Watson instructing his men to attach silencers to their firearms.

 

But as it was, the security measure remained undiscovered and John was able to take his time observing the building where Sebastian Moran lived.

 

It was one of those typical multi-storey, red brick houses with little gables overlooking the street, an abundance of white-framed windows, and a rather pompous entrance of white stone. It was irritating that Moran lived in a multi-unit building, as it was entirely likely that at least some of his neighbours were at home and thus able to hear any shots that might fall. That was why John had ordered Dave, Naresh, and Ginger to use the silencers, just to be on the safe side. (He was annoyed at himself for having forgotten Ginger's real name again, but he was too proud to ask about it.)

 

"Everyone ready?" John inquired. When all three nodded, he reached for a small leather bag that was suspiciously reminiscent of an old-fashioned doctor's case. "Let's go then," he said curtly.

 

Dave - on the passenger's side in the front - got out first and held the door open for John. Ginger and Naresh followed, letting their watchful eyes glide over the street and every window along it. With quick yet unhurried steps, the four men crossed the street in their long, dark woollen coats, heading for the house where Moran lived. The entry door wasn't locked, so they were able to enter unimpeded. They went up the stairs to the first floor, where a small brass nameplate with _'Moran'_ engraved on it announced they had arrived at their destination.

 

Ginger rang the buzzer on the door following a nod from John.

 

Preparations for the diamond smuggling operation had reached a critical phase in which it had become necessary to include other members of the crime _family_ in the planning and execution... which meant that Moran would also become aware of all the details of the plan, or be able to access them. In other words, Moran would be in possession of enough information to blow the whistle on the smuggling operation with Scotland Yard - or rather, with Donovan.

 

John simply couldn't afford another failure. It was obvious by now that Donovan was pursuing John in particular, and his position within the mob had become more vulnerable than he liked. Even Mike, who often displayed a completely incomprehensible optimism in this area, had stopped trying to whitewash the situation. In order to secure John's position (and his life), this diamond caper had to go off without a hitch - and that meant it was necessary to eliminate the one superfluous unknown from the equation... namely Moran.

 

None of the 24-hour surveillance had revealed any secret contacts with Moran, but John still felt there was something off and wanted to be on the safe side. He'd therefore decided to wait to off Moran until he'd interrogated him thoroughly about his contacts and any backers... an interrogation which John intended to carry out himself... an interrogation he'd been itching to get to for days. He'd had to control himself for too long, hadn't been able to show that anything was going on. Today he'd take that mask off and Moran would see his true face.

 

John had only shared his plans with a few select people. Mike and Sherlock knew about it, of course - he'd coordinated everything with them in the first place. But beyond that, only three men were included … the ones who were accompanying him today. No one else within the mob was meant to hear about the fact that he was getting rid of another one of his inner circle (following Albright's nephew and Albright himself). No one would ever want to be bureau head under him again, should it get out.

 

Ginger rang the buzzer again and the sound jerked John back out of his thoughts.

 

The door finally opened, and Moran's tall frame appeared in the doorway.

 

His eyes flicked quickly over the men in the hallway before stopping on John.

 

"Mr Watson... our meeting isn't for another hour," Moran remarked. His expression became more full of foreboding yet also more alert with every word.

 

"Correct," John affirmed, grinning broadly. "But that appointment was simply meant to ensure you would be at home precisely now." At John's signal, his companions crowded Moran back into the flat. John checked the hall one last time before following them and pulling the door shut behind him.

 

John's bodyguards had brought Moran into the living room, where they now stood surrounding him, each with a gun in his hand. The weapons were aimed at the floor, not Moran, but they still represented a subliminal threat. John had barely entered the room when he was met by Moran's cool, calculating gaze, which turned into something meant to express bewilderment just moments later. John caught the change, however, putting his suspicions on high alert.

 

"Mr Watson," Moran exclaimed with a good show of affronted innocence. "What's all this about? I don't understand..."

 

"You understand all too well, you bastard," John cut him off with a grim smile.

 

Something flashed in Moran's eyes, but he kept his facade of persecuted blamelessness in place. "If something was wrong with my receipts... or if I haven't done my job well enough..."

 

"A bit too well, it seems," John countered and took a look around. Beside him stood a waist-high cabinet with various cables and chargers lying on top. John swept everything onto the floor with a single motion, setting his bag in its place.

 

"Too... well?" Moran asked slowly.

 

John directed his full attention at Moran. His gaze was icy as he spoke: "Let's not beat around the bush, Moran. I know you were the one behind Charlie, and I also know you transported the bomb to the ball at Scotland Yard." John let that sink in for a few seconds before continuing. "And I don't just know it, I can prove it." He turned to his bag and opened it, although he didn't take anything out yet. He turned back to Moran. "I may not be able to prove that you keep snitching to that bloody Donovan, all the while making yourself shine with each new success... but the whole thing stinks. It stinks to high heaven."

 

The cool, calculating look returned to Moran's eyes. This time, however, it stayed there rather than disappearing after a few seconds.

 

"Okay," he finally said with a lopsided grin. "What gave me away?"

 

John tilted his head to one side. A greasy smile played at the corners of his mouth. "You shouldn't have been so cheap with the tips. Something like that will come back to bite you sooner or later."

 

Moran's brow creased and his eyes narrowed. He apparently didn't know what to make of John's remark.

 

"Whoever it was," John said, interrupting Moran's intense thought process, "it doesn't matter any longer. I know all about your schemes."

 

"Not all of them, it seems," Moran drawled. "Otherwise I'd already be in the morgue and you wouldn't be here." He gave John a crafty look. "So what else do you want from me?"

 

"Names," John replied promptly. "I want to know who's mixed up in this mess against me. I want to know if it was all your idea or if there's a big, bad bogey man behind the scenes."

 

Moran snorted in amusement. "Doc... why should I help you?" He looked pointedly at John's bodyguards and their drawn weapons. "I'm not getting out of here alive. Either way... why should I do you a favour?"

 

A fiendish grin appeared on John's lips. "Because that favour spells the difference between a clean shot between the eyes or a jigsaw puzzle for the pathologist."

 

There was no sign of the fear - or even panic - John had expected. Calm deliberation was all that flared briefly on Moran's face. He gave the bodyguards and their weapons another thorough once-over before putting on a renewed front of complete indifference. But John had registered every movement, every twitch.

 

"You're not armed, Moran," he said, shaking his head with false regret. "Shame. You might have had a sliver of a chance otherwise. And if you're thinking of attacking one of my men or even me on the off chance that a wild shot might kill you straight away... nice idea. Truly," John insisted. "But... somehow... not all that well thought out. My men have strict orders not to kill you. Oh, they'll shoot you, don't worry - if you're really stupid enough to try such a harebrained scheme - but they won't shoot to kill. They'll shoot to stop you and put you out of commission. No more and no less," he concluded with an icy smile.

 

"Maybe I'll take my chances," Moran said, unimpressed.

 

John's smile grew broader. "Then you'd better do it as long as you're able to."

 

Nothing happened for a few seconds. The only sound was the quiet ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece. John and Moran kept their eyes firmly fixed on each other. Every flinch, every blink on the part of their opponent was immediately taken note of and assessed. The two men circled each other mentally like two sharks in a small tank. They were both ruthless killers when it came down to it, prepared to take advantage of even the smallest weakness on the part of their victim... but also capable, if necessary, of exercising patience and playing the game of cat-and-mouse.

 

"Oookay," John announced after a short while. "Time's up. Your chance at one final act of desperation is gone."

 

"What are you going to do now, Doc? Torture me? I suppose you can't think of anything better," Moran retorted disdainfully.

 

John didn't respond to the obvious provocation. "Oh, torture has a long and rich history," he declared cheerfully. "It was recognised by the courts in the Middle Ages as a means of getting at the truth."

 

"How can you be sure I'll tell you the truth?" Moran sneered. "I could tell you God knows what. People do that sometimes. Especially under torture."

 

At this juncture in the discussion, John reached into the leather bag on the cabinet and took out a long, shiny knife made entirely of metal. He ran one finger over the back with an almost loving touch.

 

"Amputation knife. Blade length: nineteen centimetres." He let out a quiet, contented sigh. "I'm always amazed how much truth you can find at the root of a lie... after all the pain... and how much pain can be administered when you have the appropriate tools and the necessary anatomical knowledge." John chuckled softly. "And it just so happens... I'm in possession of both."

 

Moran gave the knife an appraising look before his eyes wandered back to the bodyguards, who were silently and watchfully following the proceedings. Then he barked out a short, dry laugh. "So you want to know whether I was acting on my own or whether there was anyone else?"

 

"Precisely," John agreed with an obliging smile.

 

"Wellll..." Moran said slowly then leapt at John, grabbed the hand holding the knife with both of his hands and pulled the blade to the left side of his chest. At the same time, he whispered in a mocking tone, "You'll never find out now..." Then he threw himself on the knife with all his might.

 

John did everything he could to prevent it, but Moran was too strong for him. John wasn't able to let go of the knife or pull it back. Moran had been on him too fast, had flung himself on the knife too quickly, had pierced his heart with the sharp blade too swiftly.

 

He watched in shock as the ugly, contemptuous grin faded from Moran's face, the light in his eyes extinguished, and finally, finally, the strength faded from his fingers and his steely grip on John's hand relaxed. John let go of the knife handle, took a step back, and watched as Moran dropped to his knees, tilted to one side and collapsed onto the floor, his eyes empty. The handle of the knife was left sticking straight out of his chest … the blade had gone in up to the hilt. Blood seeped out of the wound, and John shook with rage.

 

"Bastard!" he hissed between his teeth. "Naresh! Gun!" he commanded harshly.

 

"Boss... that's not a good idea..." Naresh admonished him cautiously. "The MEs... if they find a bullet in his head..."

 

"I wouldn't put it past that Donovan to keep after it until she finds the matching weapon," Ginger piped up as well. "We don't want to risk it."

 

"Our pieces have been used a few times too often," Dave agreed. "Dimmock always turned a blind eye... but since Donovan's in there... And he can't get any deader anyhow."

 

Breathing hard through his nose, John stared down at the lifeless body of Sebastian Moran. His hands shook with suppressed fury over his foiled plan.

 

"Fuck!" he cursed heartily to give himself some relief. "Buggery fuck!" Then he took a deep, cleansing breath. "All right," he finally said. "No sense crying over spilt milk. Put out the evidence we prepared so the police have someone to pin the bomb on from their bloody ball and I'm not their scapegoat any longer."

 

Ginger and Naresh nodded and put a USB stick, two CDs with critical data (proving that Moran was acting on his own and John's organisation had nothing to do with it) and some explosives into one of the living room cupboards, while Dave meticulously wiped John's fingerprints from the handle of the amputation knief.

 

"Good," John said when his men were finished. "Let's go."

 

"Shouldn't we take his laptop and phone with us?" Ginger asked. "Maybe we can get something off them."

 

John chewed on the inside of his cheek. He and Mike had nearly come to blows over precisely that issue.

 

"No," he replied reluctantly. "Not the laptop. It'd be too suspicious if it were missing. But... his phone... I want to have a look at the call history, at least."

 

Ginger handed over the mobile phone that had been lying on the coffee table.

 

John turned it on and swore under his breath. "Password protected!"

 

"Should we take it with us?" Ginger repeated.

 

"No," John decided with a heavy heart. "That would stick out too much too. And I don't know whether the bastard has some tracker installed in his phone either. Could be fatal."

 

Ginger nodded, took the mobile back from John, wiped it clean, and put it back on the table.

 

"Shame," Ginger murmured.

 

"All right - Move out," John ordered dully.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

It was dusk, and a grey-haired man stood beside Hyde Park's Serpentine Lake. The tip of his cigarette glowed red in the light fog that was sinking slowly and inexorably over London. The collar of his coat was turned up to protect him a bit from the drizzle the fog had brought with it. A hungry pair of ducks swam hopefully over to him, and the man actually found half a doughnut in his pocket. He broke off generous pieces of it and tossed them into the water, where the ducks fell upon them greedily.

 

Another man unobtrusively joined the scene. His open umbrella covered his face entirely.

 

"Horrid weather," the man with the umbrella said to no one in particular.

 

"Wasn't there meant to be some kind of evidence in the flat?" the grey-haired man said. "Did the Doc play you for a fool, Mycroft?"

 

Mycroft closed his eyes. "He gave me his word, Gregory," he said firmly.

 

Greg nodded darkly. "Then someone made sure the evidence disappeared again. I did a little digging... the team that searched the flat didn't find anything, apparently. No evidence, no phone, no computer."

 

"This Donovan seems to be a remarkable woman with a remarkably long reach," Mycroft stated in a tone that bordered on admiring.

 

Greg ground his teeth. "And with remarkably long fingers."

 

"This outcome to the affair is rather... unpleasant," Mycroft admitted unwillingly.

 

"You know what it looks like to me?" Greg asked with restrained ferocity. "Like someone's desperate to pin something on Doc Watson. Not that it would be unjustified... but he shouldn't be made responsible for something he had nothing to do with."

 

"Your sense of fair play is refreshing, as always."

 

"Yeah, go ahead and make fun," Greg growled.

 

Mycroft nudged a pebble into the water with the toe of his shoe, scaring away the ducks. "You should get a divorce," he mentioned apropos of nothing.

 

Greg had just taken the last drag on his cigarette and choked on the smoke upon hearing Mycroft's words. He coughed and gasped for air. When he could breathe again, he said hoarsely, "Can't. No chance. My wife's Catholic like nothing you've ever seen. Of course she only believes when it suits her agenda," he added sourly.

 

A soft sigh sounded. "Fine," Mycroft granted. "There are other ways to get rid of a wife..."

 

Greg was just about to flick his cigarette butt away, but paused mid-motion. "Are you trying to say..." His voice sounded thick.

 

"Doc Watson would doubtless be willing to arrange it for me."

 

"You're insane," Greg croaked.

 

"No, not really. I just never would have thought it would feel so filthy to be a married man's _secret_."

 

Greg finally let go of the butt and fished a fresh cigarette out of the pack. He lit it and took a deep drag.

 

"Just do what I do. Don't think about it," he said, watching the smoke that rose from his mouth float into the damp evening air, only to dissipate with gentle swirls in the mist.

 

" _Don't think_..." Mycroft echoed. "No, I'm afraid that's not an option for me."

 

"Is that an ultimatum?" Greg pressed incredulously. "Divorce your wife or she's fish food?"

 

"If you insist on putting it so crudely..."

 

"That's madness! I'm a cop!"

 

"And I'm..." Mycroft glanced around suspiciously, but there was no one there aside from them. Still, he lowered his voice when he continued: "And I occupy a public position." He raised one eyebrow. "So?"

 

Greg gaped at him. "You're off your rocker."

 

"Will you get a divorce?" Mycroft repeated calmly.

 

"Yes," was Greg's succint reply.

 

"Thank you."

 

Greg sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "It won't be easy..."

 

"I can recommend an excellent solicitor."

 

"With excellent prices, I'd reckon," Greg sniped back.

 

"Please don't worry about the cost," Mycroft answered smoothly.

 

Greg took a few drags on his cigarette while Mycroft provided him with silent company.

 

"Why now, in particular? Why is it so important to you that I get divorced now?"

 

"So that you're unattached when..." Mycroft hesitated. "Secrets like ours have an unpleasant way of coming out at the most inopportune moment. I would prefer, when such a moment arises, not to be involved in some distasteful divorce proceedings … but rather to be able to present you as my - heretofore secret - fiancé."

 

"Your WHAT?" Greg cried in shock.

 

"I thought that was rather obvious."

 

"And I thought a bloke got asked first," Greg protested, threw his half-smoked cigarette on the ground and crushed it under his heel.

 

"I will, no doubt, at an appropriate juncture," Mycroft replied coolly.

 

"An appropriate juncture..." Greg muttered to himself, shaking his head. "You're killing me. Do I at least get a good-bye kiss?"

 

"Better not," Mycroft put him off. "One never knows who might be lurking in the bushes with a telephoto lens."

 

"Okay," Greg said in a subued voice and turned away. He left, his shoulders hanging.

 

Mycroft watched him for a long time. Eventually, he turned around and left as well. He needed to find out more about this Donovan. Slowly but surely, she was getting too dangerous for all of them.

 

When Mycroft arrived at his office a short while later and stepped into the reception area, he took note of the reddened eyes and increased percentage of black in his secretary's attire (he hadn't seen her yet that day as he'd been at an appointment with the Ministry of the Interior since early that morning, right up to his meeting with Greg), but based on the old-fashioned locket that suddenly hung around her neck, he deduced the death of an aunt and didn't inquire any further. He just hoped Miss Morstan wouldn't want a day off for the funeral... he'd never had such a hard-working secretary in his entire career, and it would be difficult to do without her just now.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

" ' _… the open door was noticed by a neighbour, who found the body and alerted the police. The deceased has been identified as Sebastian James Moran. There was no evidence left behind at all which might shed light on the identity of the perpetrator or perpetrators. Scotland Yard is likewise in the dark regarding a possible motive. A connection to the mob cannot be ruled out. The investigation is ongoing and the public is called upon to..._ ' " Mike looked up from the newspaper he was reading from. "Then it's just the usual blah-blah."

 

John stood at the window of his office, looking out at the bare tree limbs, his hands clasped behind his back. Sherlock was at John's desk, his elbows propped up and his hands folded beneath his chin in an attitude of prayer.

 

Mike folded the newspaper, tossed it down on the coffee table in front of him and sank back into the upholstered cushions of the couch.

 

"That could have gone better..." he said to the room in general. "It's a crying shame that our prepared evidence disappeared. Someone's after your head on a stick, Johnny."

 

"So there's still someone working in the background," Sherlock interjected. "At least we have an answer to that question."

 

"There's still that bloody Donovan, that's for sure, holding her hand out to someone. Probably the Russkies," John snarled from the window.

 

Mike frowned. "The Russians? Do you really think so?" he asked doubtfully.

 

"That huge coke deal we heard about the other day?" John said, his agitation apparent. "That was that shithead Dimitri, I'd bet anything. It went down without a hitch. I'm telling you - he's greasing Donovan's palm. If I'd tried something like that I'd likely be behind bars right now. The bint's out to get me."

 

Mike nodded his head thoughtfully. "You're not entirely wrong about one thing... Dimitri really does appear to be gathering troops again. Fresh blood... young fellows... ruthless... prone to violence."

 

John turned around. "And all we can do is stand there and watch with our thumbs up our arses because we'd be taken down for so much as one small hit," he cried bitterly. "I can't run a business like this!"

 

"Sebastian _James_ Moran..." Sherlock murmured half to himself before looking over at John. "So you think he's the _'Jim'_ from the voicemail on the phone you found all those months ago? Do you also think he's the ' _JM_ ' that was jotted down as the sender on that envelope?"

 

"I'm sure of it," John said firmly. "Maybe he made a deal with the Russians to edge me out. Maybe he wanted to become the boss himself... what do I know? The bastard's dead and that means one thing that's been dealt with. One less thing to worry about at any rate. Now all I've got is that Donovan and the Russians after me." John laughed, but it wasn't a joyful sound.

 

Mike shook his head. "I don't know..." he argued. "Moran had a different voice than that _'Jim'_ on the voicemail."

 

"He'll have got someone to speak for him," John dismissed the objection. "At least I would have."

 

"That's true," Mike admitted. "Okay. Let's talk about the diamonds."

 

"No," Sherlock said, having heard the light footsteps of the butler out in the entrance hall. "We're going to have coffee first."

 

No sooner had he spoken than a knock sounded at the door and Jacques entered. On the tray he set down on the desk in front of Sherlock were three cups, a small pot of coffee, and a little pitcher of milk along with a sugar bowl. The saucers were already decorated with the delicate almond biscuits Jacques was so proud of - and rightfully so. As usual, there were two biscuits on Sherlock's plate, while John and Mike were each accorded a single confection.

 

While the butler prepared the cups with milk and sugar according to each man's preference, Sherlock suddenly spoke to him in French.

 

"Splendide, Jacques," Sherlock said, beaming at him. "Merci beaucoup, votre café sent délicieusement bon."

 

"On fait ce que l'on peut," Jacques returned modestly, although he was clearly quite pleased at the praise from Sherlock. He straightened the spoons on the saucers with a perfectionistic gesture. "Est-ce que tout vous convient? Désirez-vous autre chose?"

 

"Tout est superbe, Jacques," Sherlock congratulated him, his eyes shining and with a light-hearted tone to his voice. "Comme toujours d'ailleurs. Vous pouvez commencer le service. Mais, il y a juste une chose..."

 

Jacques' hesitant glow collapsed entirely at the hint of critcism. "Monsieur...y'a-t-il quelque chose qui ne va pas?" he asked with a note of desperation. "Vous n'avez qu'à me dire ce..."

 

"Non, ce n'est rien," Sherlock disclaimed charmingly. "Je me demandais... si c'était possible..." He hemmed and hawed and hesitated, Jacques following each movement of his lips with breathless anticipation, until Sherlock finally continued with a flutter of his eyelids that defied description. "Serait-il possible d'avoir encore quelques unes de votre merveilleuses biscuits?" A hopeful expression bordering on begging came into his eyes. "Nous avons une dure journée devant nous et je sais que Monsieur Stamford aime tout particulièrement votre _'tuiles aux amandes'_..."

 

A brief inner struggle was visible on Jacques' face between the desire not to simply waste his carefully guarded and strictly rationed treats and the desire to be of service to Sherlock.

 

"Très bien, monsieur. Bien sûr, monsieur. Je vous en apporte une assiette tout de suite." He bowed briefly and was rewarded with a bright smile.

 

Mike had followed the exchange with his mouth hanging open. His French was just good enough to order in a restaurant and ask for the cheque, so he hadn't understood everything Sherlock and Jacques had said, but it all became clear a few moments later when Jacques returned, placed an elegant glass dish with several almond biscuits in front of Mike, and then disappeared with a nod and one last worshipful glance in Sherlock's direction.

 

Mike suddenly understood why Susan had giggled during her phone call with Sherlock and tossed her hair back in this typical mannerism.

 

Not even Mike felt that he could resist such aggressive charm as he'd just observed Sherlock employ. He probably would have been putty in Sherlock's hands just like Jacques if he'd been exposed to the full firepower of those eyes and the full, unbridled impact of that scintillating charisma. Mike never would have suspected that such a forceful personality existed beneath Sherlock's otherwise so cool - and ofttimes fragile - exterior. All of a sudden, Mike began to have an inkling of why John had continued to return to Irene Adler's establishment following that initial meeting... like a moth, he'd been caught in the circle of Sherlock's light and drawn to it in the most irresistible manner.

 

Another, less pleasant thought accompanied these insights... was it possible that Sherlock wasn't quite as devoted to John as Mike had thought? Was he nothing more than a gold digger when all was said and done? A calculating callboy? A snake in the grass? Could he have been so wrong in his estimation of Sherlock?

 

Mike almost felt he'd received confirmation of his suspicions when all that light, all the gentleness, all the mellifluence dropped away with astonishing speed and ease the moment Jacques left the office and the three of them were alone once more.

 

John took a sip from his cup, shaking his head, before saying to Sherlock, "You're not going to stop until Jacques's including you in his evening devotions, are you?"

 

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. "I'm not going to stop until he's praying to me instead of that god of his," he declared lightly.

 

"Unscrupulous arse," John said, making it sound like a term of endearment. Sherlock actually smiled, flattered, and this time a genuine light appeared in his eyes.

 

The light was so different from what had been there before that Mike wondered how he could have fallen for it for even a second, how he could have been stupid enough to think that Sherlock would ever pretend with John. He recalled how Sherlock had assured him he would never use his charms on John because John would see through them right away. Mike allowed himself a brief sigh of relief. Sherlock was no faker. At least not with John, and that was all that mattered.

 

And John? It was true, John would never fall for Sherlock's false allures. The brief exchange just now didn't allow any other conclusion. John hadn't felt the pull that even Mike had perceived, and which Jacques had nothing - absolutely nothing - to counter it with. No, John had merely observed and been amused by Sherlock's scheming. And now the two of them were exchanging looks as if they were about to...

 

Mike cleared his throat.

 

"So... the diamonds."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

The masons and electricians had cleared out, but more tradesmen had invaded the new bathroom like a plague of locusts, where they were laying tiles and installing every imaginable accoutrement, from bathtub to bidet, as long as it was decadent … and expensive.

 

Sherlock had taken to sneaking behind the plastic tarp that still hung in the hall, separating the area that was being renovated from the rest of the house, to track the progress on their future bedroom, his eyes round and his heart racing with disbelief.

 

This is where a settee would be... over there an armchair... a full-length mirror... this is where their clothes would hang... and right next to that a set of drawers where their socks and underwear would lie side-by-side.

 

He was going to live here with John.

 

Every time the thought crossed his mind (and it always did at the sight of the empty, echoing rooms), Sherlock had to close his eyes. Profound gratitude and happiness mixed with an utter inability to comprehend what he had done to deserve all this.

 

On one of those days, he'd just closed his eyes when he heard John's voice behind him.

 

"In here again?"

 

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked around. John stood behind him in suit, shirt, and tie, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

 

"You knew..."

 

John shrugged his shoulders casually. "Of course I knew where you were every time it seemed like you'd vanished from the face of the earth." He walked over to Sherlock and put his arm around his waist. "They're papering in here tomorrow and then they're laying the parquet. After that all that's left is painting, and then we can have all that furniture we ordered delivered and set up. The bed's going here, right?"

 

Sherlock nodded. That's what they'd decided and it was sketched in on the blueprints. The only problem was they hadn't found a bed yet that met their specifications. They simply hadn't been able to find the _'perfect bed'_ \- as they referred to it only half in jest. The search would probably come to naught and they'd end up settling for some kind of compromise, but they hadn't given up yet and stubbornly continued to look.

 

"The couch right here..." John went on, "and over here..."

 

"We could mount the St Andrew's cross on that wall," Sherlock cut in. "And there'd be room for a spanking horse right next to it. Or a bondage chair... what do you think?" Sherlock directed his gaze at John and noted with a frown that John was looking at him as if Sherlock had lost his mind. "John?" he asked, confused.

 

"A St. Andrew's cross?" John repeated in a strangled voice. "What do you think this is going to be? Some kind of S and M club?"

 

"No, but..."

 

"I don't want any of that crap in the house!" John declared categorically.

 

"But John..."

 

"If I feel like tying you down, hitting you and hurting you until you're so turned on you don't know up from down, then that's exactly what I'll do." The arm around Sherlock's waist tightened and held him more firmly. "Without all those bits and bobs. Just like I always have. A couple of hooks here and there... a rope... some leather cuffs... I don't need more than that," John growled in a low voice. "Or do you have a different opinion?"

 

John's lowered voice... the faint scent of gun oil and metal that always surrounded him, emanating an aura of danger... the tantalising words... it all made Sherlock's knees go weak and his penis become hard.

 

"Do it," he demanded, his voice raw. "Do it now. Here."

 

"Here? Sherlock... there are buckets of paint and other stuff all over..." John pointed out, but Sherlock saw the spark in John's eyes and knew he was on fire now, his protest nothing more than empty words.

 

Without paying attention to John's objection, therefore, Sherlock lowered his mouth to John's lips for a hungry kiss.

 

"You were just boasting of your creativity," he taunted provocatively. "Prove it," he whispered, rubbing against John in an unambiguous manner.

 

John pulled him closer, kissed and nipped greedily at the proffered lips before pushing him away. "You're going to be the death of me," he panted, licking his upper lip with lustful desire. "All right, fine - you asked for it. Take off your clothes. I want to see you naked."

 

"Yes," Sherlock breathed out, shivering with pleasure. The cool air touched every inch of his skin with a tingly, almost loving caress as he slowly bared it, offering himself up bit by bit to John's gaze.

 

The room smelled like damp plaster - oddly dusty and fresh at the same time; like glue - sweet and stale; and the sharp fumes of paint and varnish assaulted his nose as well. The untreated wooden planks on the floor were covered with a thick plastic tarp that felt smooth and cool on his bare feet. As soon as the parquet was laid, it would smell like fresh wood in here too. Sherlock was looking forward to kneeling on the precious tropical wood (the import of which was actually prohibited, meaning the delivery - thanks to John's connections - had made the parquet company break out in a cold sweat) and licking John's cock.

 

But today he was standing on a plastic sheet amidst bare, freshly plastered walls - completely exposed - between ladders, paint buckets, and other tools of the trade, feeling utterly filthy, almost like a cheap construction site whore. There was something disturbingly erotic about the image. He moaned wantonly and the first drop fell from his erect penis onto the floor.

 

"You're making a mess again already," John took pleasure in reproaching him. "You are and will always be a knob slob. It looks like I'm going to have to punish you, like it or not."

 

"Yes... please..." Sherlock whispered, breathless.

 

"At least you own up to it," John said with a nefarious grin. "Go to that ladder over there." John nodded toward the aluminium stepladder. "Hands on the rungs and spread your legs nice and wide."

 

Sherlock did as he was told, his heart pounding as he waited while John walked around behind his back, moving objects around and making noises that Sherlock couldn't quite place in his excitement. What exquisite fiendishness was John going to think up for him?

 

He wasn't left in the dark for long, as he soon felt John's fingers touch his testicles, causing him to flinch a little.

 

"You should get that twitchiness under control..." John warned him sternly. Sherlock held still as John wound something made of cloth around his sac and knotted it tightly. Sherlock drew in a sharp breath between his teeth and his hands tightened on the rung as the first wave of lust rolled through his body. John's fingers probed his full, tied-off testicles and Sherlock heard him murmur, "Good... not too tight..." before he felt a hand on his shoulder... a kiss on the back of his neck and John's mouth against his ear.

 

"Your safeword?"

 

Sherlock leaned into the gentle touch. "Vatican cameos," he replied obediently, only rolling his eyes a bit.

 

"Good," John said, sounding relieved. "All right... I've sacrificed my tie to bind your balls. That means you're going to exercise at least a modicum of self-control and not shoot off right away. I'm going to fix the other end of the tie to the handle of one of these open paint cans. You are not to squirm, you are not to move a single muscle... no matter what I do to you... otherwise the paint can will tip over and we don't want that to happen, do we?"

 

Sherlock let out a throaty moan and nodded enthusiastically. In the wake of the tender care he'd been receiving recently, his body and spirit were both thirsting for a change... for harder, more strenuous attention.

 

John tugged on the tie and adjusted it here and there. "There," he said after a while, sounding satisfied.

 

Then Sherlock heard a heavy object being shoved across the plastic. At the same time, he felt the tie go taut, pulling on his testicles and slowly and inexorably stretching them until they were in a position between his legs that nature never intended. His stiff member followed the motion until it pointed almost directly downward. Sherlock bit down on his lips but didn't change his position one iota, despite the fact that he could have shifted his hips back a bit to lessen the pressure... the continual, tight pain was too wonderful to put an end to it yet.

 

"Good boy," John praised him, running a hand down his back.

 

Sherlock twitched without meaning to and John laughed.

 

"Lucky I haven't taken the lid off yet." The hand disappeared from Sherlock's back, followed by the sound of a loud _'click'_ , and the sharp chemical scent of paint rose to Sherlock's nostrils.

 

"Ready?" John asked.

 

Sherlock took a deep breath. "Always," he answered in a whisper full of certitude and warmth.

 

John's breath hitched at the word. How close had he come to losing this wonderful man? How had Sherlock managed not to leave him following that night... that single, terrible night? No one in their right mind would have stayed with him after something like that. No one. John was fully aware of that fact. Constantly. That was precisely why he'd locked Sherlock into the bedroom that morning and even gone so far as to take the key with him. All simply to ensure that Sherlock would stay. And even then, he'd spent the next several hours in the firm belief that he'd find the room empty when he returned. There was a reason he'd delayed that moment as long as possible. And when he'd then finally convinced himself to return home... Sherlock had still been there.

 

John swallowed hard and his throat became tight.

 

He'd never been so thankful that Sherlock really was soft in the head. Soft enough to stay with him. It was true what Sherlock had always said of himself: he wasn't very good at doing the right thing or making decisions that were good for him. Those faults, however, were directly responsible for Sherlock still being here, so John wasn't about to start complaining. Sherlock also wasn't particularly successful at taking care of himself. But that wasn't a problem for John either. Taking care of Sherlock and caring for him was his job... his duty... his privilege.

 

Lost in thought, John's gaze wandered over Sherlock's extended arms, his lowered head, his curved spine, his spread legs, his inviting arse. How often had his fingers itched to add purple bruises and red stripes to Sherlock's flawless skin right there? Yet the memories of that awful night still sat deep in his bones. Nevertheless, he wanted it... he needed it... apparently just as much as Sherlock did. Sherlock - who had been braver than him this time and not been ashamed to demand what he required... what he desired. If Sherlock could display that much courage - after everything that had happened between them - then John didn't want to stand in the way.

 

He raised his hand decisively and brought it down with a loud slap on the bottom that was being offered in such a tantalising manner. Sherlock cried out, short and sharp, more in surprise than pain, and jerked his hips forward in a delayed attempt at an evasive manoeuvre.

 

The bucket wobbled a little, the paint sloshed up briefly, but that was all. Sherlock gasped for air and hurried to reduce the pull on his testicles and stretch his arse up in the back again.

 

John took a deep breath.

 

God - it was wonderful. Wonderful and liberating. His hand burned from the impact of the hit, and Sherlock's fair skin now sported the flaming imprint of his fingers. Ever since the moment when he'd run into Victor in Crieff, he hadn't been able to breathe as easily as he did now. John sucked in air with a deep feeling of relief, as if a heavy weight had been lifted from his chest.

 

"That was a miserable performance, Sherlock," John reproached him, playing at being dissatisfied. "But I'll give you one more chance to do better. In fact..." he noted, drawing out the words, "we'll keep at it until you've learned to hold still."

 

"Thank you, John," Sherlock answered with a happy, entirely sincere sigh. "You're always so good to me."

 

John grinned broadly. "I do try," he said dryly, reaching back for the next strike.

 

A seemingly endless series of slaps rained down on Sherlock's behind until he could no longer differentiate between pain and pleasure and his testicles felt huge and swollen - one single erogenous zone stretched between pleasure and pain. His forehead broke out in a cold sweat even as the skin of his buttocks glowed with heat and his legs trembled with desire at every laborious breath.

 

He didn't succeed in keeping completely still. And so John was never entirely satisfied with him and his reactions, and the shame throbbed in his groin, causing his weeping manhood to pulse with arousal.

 

"Please, John," he pleaded once more. "Please... let me come."

 

"Hmmm," John said, pretending to think it over. "Do you really think you've earned it?" he scoffed.

 

Sherlock shook his head, ashamed, and a renewed wave of lust ran through his body.

 

"What was that?" John demanded. "I can't hear you!"

 

A whimper escaped Sherlock's lips before he was able to answer. "No... I haven't earned it." The words burned in his throat, droned in his ears, and made his penis swell up just a little bit more.

 

"But you have given it a good shot," John conceded. "Maybe you could do with a little positive reinforcement..." No sooner had John spoken the last word than Sherlock felt a hand wrap around his hard flesh. He sobbed with relief. "Shhh..." John said, stroking Sherlock's back with one hand in a calming gesture. "It's all right..." he murmured softly. "Everything's all right..." Then Sherlock heard the typical sound of a zipper being opened, and his mouth began to water.

 

"Yes..." Sherlock moaned uncontrollably. "Fuck me... John... fuck me... please!" He arched his back and pushed his hips further back. The exquisite pain in his testicles lessened a bit, and Sherlock gasped for air as the absence of pain hurt more than the pain itself, at least in the first moment.

 

"No, Sherlock," John said firmly and with a touch of regret. "I don't have any lube."

 

"I don't care!" Sherlock insisted, rubbing his flaming rear greedily against John's clothing.

 

A hand pushed him gently back. Sherlock was almost in tears from arousal and frustration.

 

"But I do... I do care." John whispered, his voice gentle, and now it was emotions that clouded Sherlock's gaze for a brief moment. "Put your legs back together... yeah, like that... nice and tight..."

 

When John inserted his hard cock between Sherlock's thighs, pressing against his taut, stretched testicles, Sherlock let out a lust-filled moan of relief. John's fingers massaged and rubbed his erection while he fucked his thighs with short, firm thrusts, hitting Sherlock's sensitive balls in a highly arousing way every time. Sherlock's arousal quickly spiralled upward into an ecstasy that nearly overwhelmed him, but the tie that still bound his testicles, pulling them back away from his body, made it difficult to reach the orgasm that would set him free. Everything was so sensitive... so swollen... the painful pull... the tightness... the pressure... the incredible hotness... all at the same time, and it made his entire body tremble, catch fire, and burn.

 

"Please... John," he pleaded at some point. " _Please_..."

 

"That was all I was waiting to hear," John murmured against the back of his neck. So soft, so gentle, so caring... in such stark contrast to his implacable thrusts. The wonderful hand on his hard length moved faster, the fingers closed tighter around his hot, pulsing shaft. Sherlock tossed his head back, dug his teeth into his lower lips, clenched his fingers around the rung of the ladder until they cried out in protest. The words _'I can't - I can't do it'_ were already poised on his tongue, but then John - his wonderful, singular, creative John - pinched the head of his overstimulated penis and bit his shoulder at the same time. Sherlock cried out as his climax broke over him like a force of nature, and he ejaculated over John's fingers. Mere moments later, he felt something wet and slippery on his testicles - John must have come between his legs - and Sherlock's penis, which was still hard, pulsed anew as he imagined John's semen lazily dripping down his legs and sac. Semen spurted out over John's hand again. Sherlock was still shaking and trembling. His penis jerked a third time, and John carefully rubbed the last small portion of ejaculate around Sherlock's glans.

 

"God... my balls..." Sherlock groaned. "They feel like hot coals." He felt John's suppressed giggles against his back. "Don't laugh," he said. "Untie me and get me an ice pack."

 

"Nuts on the rocks." John was still laughing, but he did as requested and undid the knots in his tie as gently and carefully as possible.

 

Sherlock inhaled sharply one or two times but held still until the procedure was complete.

 

"Is the paint still in the bucket, or..." He turned around and his eye fell on the open paint bucket. His soft, relaxed expression changed instantly and he caught John's eye even as John tried to avoid the accusing look with a rather guilty expression. "You ordered that horrible periwinkle!" Sherlock cried, furious. "I don't believe it! You changed the order - behind my back! We'd agreed that..."

 

"No, we hadn't agreed! I wanted the green, but you..."

 

"I'm never sleeping in a green room again!"

 

"And I don't particularly feel like staring at a red wall every morning! As if we lived in a bordello!"

 

"Better a bordello than a dull hotel room!" Sherlock hurled back at him angrily.

 

"Then what? Apricot? Lavender?" John suggested, peeved.

 

"Exactly how gay do you think I am?!"

 

The two men stared at each other in outrage. Neither of them appeared to be prepared to give in.

 

It was Sherlock who finally broke the silence.

 

"Yellow?"

 

John sighed. "Yellow. And no St Andrew's cross."

 

"Fine." Sherlock nodded. "And now you can go get me that ice pack," he allowed with benevolent condescension.

 

The corners of John's mouth twitched in amusement. He made a small bow.

 

"Very good," he replied in a teasing tone.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_**To be continued...** _

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

It's astonishing what all you can find on the internet...

 

This is the same kind of knife that John takes out of his bag:

(only german link available...)

<http://chirurgische-instrumente-shop.com/Messer/Amputation/Amputationsmesser-Schnittlaenge-19cm.html>

 

[ ](https://41.media.tumblr.com/4628129a9726354a71a470adcd450369/tumblr_inline_nxr0scBAnE1rv6lur_540.jpg)

 

 

And this is what the row of houses might look like where Moran lived:

<https://mathieuhelie.files.wordpress.com/2008/03/chelsea.jpg>

 

My deepest thanks to bruderlein (Ao3), Natt (ff.de) and ProfesseurRogue (Ao3) for the French translations. Thank you so much!! Especially for being so fast! That was amazing!

 

(Any errors that are still in there are my fault, because I mixed and matched the translations based on my own best judgment - I do know a bit of French myself. If you find anything that's completely wrong, feel free to let me know.)

 

And now here it all is in English:

 

**Sherlock: Thank you, your coffee smells delicious.**

 

**Jacques: One does what one can. -- Is everything satisfactory? Is there anything else I can**

**do for you?**

 

**Sherlock: Everything is wonderful, Jacques. -- As always. You may go ahead and serve now.**

**There's just one thing...**

 

**Jacques: Sir... is there something that's not to your liking? -- You need only say the word...**

 

**Sherlock: No, it's nothing really. --- I was simply wondering... whether it might be possible... --**

**Might we have a few more of your marvelous** _**'tuiles aux amandes'** _ **? -- I know Mr Stamford in**

**particular has a soft spot for them and we have a rather hard day ahead of us...**

 

**Jacques: Very good, sir. Of course. I'll bring a plate of biscuits right away.**

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way... for those of you who were wondering what Sherlock mouthed silently and constantly against John's skin in one of the earlier chapters... it was "I love you".


	43. Bringing Light to the Darkness - Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation by the talented SwissMiss!

 

**Chapter 43 - Bringing Light to the Darkness - Part 1**

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

"Hello, Sergeij," Mycroft whispered into his mobile. His breath rose like white smoke into the chilly air. The sun was making a valiant effort that day, but was only occasionally able to break through the thick layer of clouds. "I don't care what you're calling yourself these days," Mycroft hissed into his phone, keeping his voice low. Right at that moment, he wished for nothing more than a gin and a cigarette.

 

Mycroft Holmes stood in Hyde Park, off to the side of the groups of people enjoying the free hot rum punch being offered to the guests of honour, their expressions relaxed and their cheeks red. As for Mycroft, he had already done his mayoral duty by opening the ridiculous fun fair which cast its blight on Hyde Park every winter. The other VIPs and guests were therefore - mercifully - leaving him in peace, and Mycroft was finally able to take care of this call after having tried in vain for several days to reach _Sergeij_.

 

"Courtesy is overrated," Mycroft noted in response to a remark the man on the other end of the line had made, his voice laced with disparaging condescension. "I prefer to cut right to the chase. I need everything you can scrape together on a certain Sally Donovan." He listened to the response. "Yes, _that_ Sally Donovan - from Scotland Yard." Mycroft shifted back and forth where he was standing. His feet were slowly but surely turning to ice. He should have worn his fur-lined boots rather than the hand-made calfskin loafers. The things one did to keep up an appealing public image. "As soon as possible, of course. I'll make it worth your while." Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, my regards to your lovely wife," he rattled off and ended the call just as Gregory Lestrade approached with two cups full of punch.

 

"Not that I have anything against the male eroticism of an unshaven face..." Mycroft remarked, taking the drink from Greg. Instead of trying it, however, he eyed the cup with distaste.

 

"Bite me, Mycroft," Greg replied brusquely. "If you don't want it, I don't have a problem drinking a double portion of the swill."

 

"Judging by your charming mood, you must have finally informed your wife that you want a divorce," Mycroft said dryly and handed the cup back to Greg. "Alcohol isn't the answer."

 

"But it's pretty damn attractive when you've been crawling around the front garden in the dark, trying to find your clothes after your wife's tossed everything you own out the window and you had to spend the night on a couch at the Yard," Greg growled, draining the first cup with a single long draught.

 

"You're in the market for a new abode, in other words..." Mycroft started to say, but Greg wasn't really listening to him.

 

"I went to the ATM this morning, but I was already too late. She's emptied our joint account and blocked my access," Greg continued his lament. "I have no idea how she managed it."

 

"As it happens, a spot has just opened in my building..." Mycroft went on, lowering his voice. "Directly across from my flat..."

 

"No bloody way," Greg answered emphatically, taking a sip from the second cup. "Forget it, Mycroft. That's sure to be some posh gaff. I can't afford it."

 

Mycroft inspected the tips of his shoes with great interest. "Don't worry about that. It would be my..."

 

"No," Greg rejected the offer harshly. "I'm not going to be kept by you. I do still have my pride. Even if it's not worth much these days."

 

Greg finished off the second drink while Mycroft watched in silence.

 

"You really didn't anticipate she'd throw you out?" Mycroft asked after a short while.

 

Greg shook his head. "I've been sleeping - well, _living_ , really - in the guest room for what seems like forever. I wouldn't have thought she'd make such a... such a stink." He shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "I was going to move out, but... I really thought I'd have time to look for something and we could handle the divorce like two civilised people. Especially considering... considering she was the one who... went looking for something else first." He sighed. "We were really happy together at the beginning," he concluded with a trace of regret. "I've spent nearly half my life with this woman, and now? Now I have a suitcase full of wrinkled clothes in my car and a secret affair with a man who makes fun of the fact that I'm sporting a bit of scruff."

 

"Am I supposed to apologise now?" Mycroft asked indignantly.

 

"That might be nice for a start," Greg said, his voice hard, and looked Mycroft directly in the eye. "Yeah."

 

Mycroft squared his shoulders and put on a haughty face, but then his eyes softened a bit.

 

"I'm sorry," he said softly, his voice oddly flat.

 

"'salright," Greg answered gruffly. "That's me off flat-hunting then." And with those words, he thrust the cups at Mycroft and left him standing there high and dry.

 

Mycroft stared after him, dumbfounded, until he lost sight first of Greg's figure and then his grey hair in the crowd.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_Jim Moriarty lounged aimlessly around on his parents' garden fence. The disinterested pose of a sullen teenager was deceptive. Jim was, in actual fact, watching the goings-on down at the vacant, overgrown lot at the end of the street, his eyes alert and his mind sharp._

 

_Carl Powers had gathered his 'crew' around him once again and was playing at being the big boss._

 

_Jim knew Carl from school (Carl was in the next higher form - he should have been two forms higher, but he had been held back a year) as well as from the orphanage where Carl had lived for the past five years, which happened to be just down the street from Jim's parents' house._

 

 _The orphanage wasn't very big, so Carl's gang was made up not only of boys from the home but also other youths from around town. Carl wasn't exactly a born leader, but he made up in muscle what he was missing in the brains department. Over the years, the childish troublemaker had grown into a burly, undisciplined, devious, violent young man whose mental development hadn't kept pace_ _with his physical prowess, despite the unified efforts of both teachers and counsellors. He had become a shining example of the strongman who encouraged his followers to carry out minor raids on the local shops and steal other kids' allowance. He sometimes beat up other boys as well - whether because they didn't want to join him, because they had threatened to tattle, or simply for the fun of it._

 

_Jim considered all of that a waste of resources. In contrast to Carl Powers, Jim was highly intelligent. He was not only first in his class, he was the cleverest pupil in the entire school. Had been for years. The school head virtually bent over backwards to accommodate him and was doing everything in her power to secure him a scholarship. Jim granted her that much freedom. He hadn't decided yet what he wanted to do with himself. A university scholarship might be useful - after all, he didn't want to end up rotting in this backwater. He wanted to see the world, put his mark on it, and leave everything behind - everything that stole all the air he needed to breathe and hampered the full blossoming of his personality: his parents, his brother, his sister... in short, his entire past._

 

_But first he needed to make sure of his abilities... he needed to test himself... stretch his wings..._

 

_It was actually quite a nice little gang that idiot Powers had put together. Of course, he was going about everything arse-backwards - but with the right kind of person in charge, that little village horde could become the terror of the entire county. They just needed to be set down the right path..._

 

_After an hour of intensive reflection, Jim decided to take over the Powers gang. That would be infinitely easier than starting his own group and fighting Powers for control of the area. No, something like that was much too tedious, too time-consuming, and an unnecessary expenditure of energy. Energy that could be put to much better use elsewhere._

 

_Jim nodded mutely to himself._

 

_Now all he needed to do was think of a way to get Powers out of the way. It would have to be something that ensured him the loyalty of the gang members, while not drawing anyone's suspicions to himself - especially not those of the authorities._

 

_Jim's lips curled in a smile of genuine happiness._

 

_An intellectual challenge. He loved challenges._

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

John was going through the final details for the diamond smuggling job with Mike when Mike started in once again on how hard it was to find a maid, even going so far as to suggest John hire Kitty Winter after all, as a sort of thank-you for her help with identifying Moran. It was at that point John decided he'd had enough.

 

"Kitty Winter?" he asked incredulously. "Of course! Brilliant plan! You can't possibly be considering hiring someone who rats other people out for less than nothing! Or have you forgotten that chit didn't even have a promise of a reward for her services? And yet she served up Moran's head on a platter, and gladly! But no, go ahead! Bring her on board!"

 

Mike raised his hands in a defensive gesture. "All right, calm down... no need to bite my head off. Was just an idea. But we do need to find someone. And soon. Eleanor is really great, but there's only so much she can do."

 

"Yeah, yeah," John said. "But speaking of Kitty... we should still send her a little something. Isn't she a model?" When Mike nodded, John continued: "Well then - get her a little job... Page Three girl or something with Playboy... Make some use of those contacts of yours, Mike."

 

"Okay, I'll think of something," Mike said with a shrug and jotted down a note for himself. "Right, that's Kitty sorted. How about that Molly Hooper who came by for an interview the other day? First-rate references and..."

 

"No - fucking - way," John gritted out.

 

"Why not?" Mike asked, bewildered. "She seemed quite nice and easy-going..."

 

"She was already making eyes at Sherlock," John explained with an ugly look on his face.

 

"Sherlock?" Mike exclaimed with a short laugh. "She's knocking on the wrong door there."

 

John continued to look grumpy. "And no sooner would she have noticed her mistake than she'd up and quit," he pointed out gruffly. "And then we'd be right back where we started. Perfect," he remarked, the word thick with sarcasm. "There's no way that bird's coming into this house," he stated categorically.

 

"Jealous?" Mike murmured in amusement.

 

"What are you trying to say?" John retorted, irritated.

 

Mike smirked. "Oh, nothing. Where is Sherlock anyway?"

 

"Terrorising... erm... _supervising_ the painters," John said with a little sigh. "I'll better go check on him."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Sherlock gazed at the walls of their future bedroom, lost in thought.

 

"Is it good like this, sir?" the young painter's apprentice asked as he added one more dab of colour to the freshly whitewashed wall with a practised hand. All of the other workers had taken an early lunch - the clock had just struck eleven - and scattered to the four winds. Only the youngest member of their group had stayed behind.

 

"Yes, Billy," Sherlock finally answered, satisfied. "It's..."

 

"BLUE?!" John suddenly cried from behind him, causing Sherlock to flinch. "What happened to the yellow? I thought we'd agreed!"

 

"The yellow looked like shite," Sherlock explained in passing. "I had it painted over. Billy has been quite helpful."

 

Billy grinned shyly and continued sponging the blue paint onto the white wall in an artistically random pattern.

 

"Billy?" John addressed him and Billy looked up from his work with a slightly worried look. "Is he right? Did the yellow really look like shite?"

 

"Well..." Billy started cautiously, scratching the back of his head with his free hand. "I wouldn't exactly call it shite..."

 

Two deep blue eyes sent a grudgingly amused look in Sherlock's direction, and John turned to go.

 

"I'll be in the office," he informed Sherlock curtly. "Ordering blue linens."

 

"You like it then?" Sherlock asked, his condescending and arrogant attitude starting to crumble as his nervousness shone through. "Can I let Billy continue?"

 

John smiled broadly. "I should have thought of it myself... your fair skin and dark hair are going to look fantastic on blue sheets. Do you have a paint chip for me? I'm going to try to find the identical shade."

 

Sherlock rushed to pass the narrow card with the sample of the blue paint and its outlandish name into John's outstretched hand. Their fingers only brushed briefly, but Sherlock felt the minimal contact so intensely as if they had shared a kiss in a close, intimate embrace.

 

The tip of John's tongue passed across his upper lip, and Sherlock's gaze fogged over for a moment. Then John was gone, and Sherlock was left alone with Billy.

 

The blue that Sherlock had chosen was the same shade as the sky on the day Sherlock had played his violin again for the first time in years. When he saw the delicate play of colour, Sherlock's heart felt as light as it had that day when he'd lain in the grass looking up at that deep blue sky.

 

John's thoughts ran along a similar track, even though he didn't know why Sherlock had chosen that particular shade of blue. He had also been struck by memories of that day when he'd viewed those walls. But he wasn't thinking of the sky - of the strong impression it had left on Sherlock, which he knew nothing about. Rather, the design which Billy was so expertly daubing onto the wall reminded him of Bach's ' _Air_ ', which Sherlock had played such an incredible variation of on his violin. The colour floated across the walls as light as the music... delicate and pure and weightless in some places, only to transition into sudden, vivid luminosity in others.

 

By the time John finished the thought, he was standing on the stairs on the way down to the ground floor.

 

"God..." he groaned softly, shaking himself in disgust. It could hardly get any cheesier than that! What was wrong with him lately?

 

But then he thought of Sherlock's glowing face, and how absolutely stunning his nude, aroused body would look in that blue room, on blue bedsheets...

 

A pleasant shudder trickled down John's back, and he hurried to get to his laptop so he could search the internet for blue linens.

 

If only they had a bed!

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_When Jim stepped out of the small lake where the village kids went bathing in summer, Carl Powers was already floating lifeless in the water. He retrieved the articles of clothing he'd hidden behind a bush with one hand, while the other held the trophy he was going to use to convince Carl's gang to choose him as their new leader._

 

_"Is he dead?" a high-pitched voice suddenly sounded next to him._

 

_Jim's head whipped around, and he found himself looking into the dispassionate face of Sally Donovan, the only dark-skinned girl in the orphanage - and in the entire village, for that matter. His muscles tensed when her eyes wandered to the trophy in his hand._

 

_"His underpants," she noted. It wasn't a question. She looked back up with those strange, dead eyes. "You killed him."_

 

_"Yes," Jim admitted, and waited. It didn't really matter to him whether there was one corpse or two in the lake. If she turned now to run, he'd just grab her by her long, kinky hair and..._

 

_But she didn't run. She merely nodded. "Good," she said softly. "Otherwise I would have done it."_

 

_And all of a sudden, Jim understood the import of Sally recognising Carl's pants at a glance._

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_\- 122 Victoria Road, Kilburn_

 

Mycroft stared at Gregory's message for a long time without so much as blinking. So he'd found a new place. Not exactly the best area. But given that he didn't have access to his savings at the moment, it was certainly the most reasonable solution. The nature of the message wasn't unclear to Mycroft for so much as a second - it was a blatant invitation. What wasn't clear to him was whether he should accept it. He thought of the last time they'd seen each other at the opening of the ' _Winter Wonderland',_ and the unfortunate tone on which that meeting had ended. Maybe it was better this way. Maybe he should just let the entire affair die a natural death.

 

An hour later the next text arrived:

 

_\- Why aren't you here yet?_

 

Mycroft slipped on his coat.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Mycroft took a taxi and had himself dropped off a street away so he could walk the last bit. It was already dark, and so far no one had recognised the mayor as the gentleman with his hat pulled down low on his forehead and his scarf wrapped around the bottom half of his face as protection against the cold. That was good, and Mycroft hoped it would stay that way. The inclement weather with its icy wind was just what he needed, as it meant no one was interested in any passers-by. Everyone just wanted to get back to the warmth of their hearth fires as quickly as possible.

 

A strip of paper with ' _G. Lestrade_ ' had been stuck to the wall next to the doorbell with a piece of packing tape. Mycroft pressed the button with a leather-gloved finger, grimacing in distaste at the shrill squeal of the bell.

 

The door opened and Greg stood in the doorway, a strangely cool expression on his otherwise so open face.

 

"What took you so long?" he asked.

 

The question took Mycroft by surprise.

 

"I'm here now," he replied after a moment.

 

Greg nodded and stepped aside to let him in.

 

Mycroft looked around. Greg's new flat was a shoddy, upmarket hole-in-the-wall. It was passably clean, the wallpaper hadn't been on the walls for more than ten years, and at least the tube didn't run directly past the bedroom window. The entryway was L-shaped with a tiny kitchen niche and opened directly onto the living-stroke-bedroom, which had another door leading out of it, allowing Mycroft to hope that Greg had his own bathroom and wasn't forced to use the public facilities in the hall. The few items of furniture displayed signs of use, but all in all it was all quite presentable. Still, the general atmosphere was forlorn and dreary.

 

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Quite a charming place you have here."

 

Greg snorted. Mycroft wasn't entirely sure whether it sounded scornful or amused.

 

"No reason to make it sound nicer than it is," Greg replied. "It's a dump," he concluded with disarming honesty. "But it's all I could get on such short notice. Anyway..." He rubbed one hand over the back of his neck. "I bought new linens yesterday and made the..."

 

He didn't get any further than that, as Mycroft pulled him close and cut off any more words with a surprisingly passionate kiss. Once Greg had overcome the initial shock, he tugged at Mycroft's coat, his jacket, and his waistcoat, moaning into Mycroft's open mouth in frustration.

 

"You're wearing too many clothes," he complained.

 

"It's cold out," Mycroft remarked, breathless, and resumed the interrupted kiss.

 

Greg growled in a low voice and yanked Mycroft's shirt out of his trousers, shoving his hands beneath it to get his hands on bare skin. Mycroft shivered, and Greg sighed happily.

 

"Better..." he murmured, licking greedily across Mycroft's lips.

 

The two men somehow managed to get rid of their clothing, ending up on the fresh, white sheets with a package of condoms and a tube of lubricant that Greg had conjured up out of nowhere.

 

Mycroft's left eyebrow lifted salaciously. "An entire package? Optimistic."

 

"I have a lot of catching up to do," Greg replied matter-of-factly. "And we can make as much noise here as we want."

 

"What if the neighbours complain?" Mycroft pointed out, not entirely seriously. The thought of Gregory being unrestrainedly loud was clearly an attractive one.

 

Greg shrugged his shoulders, rolled a condom down over Mycroft's erection, and crouched over it. Mycroft's breath stuttered as Greg slowly lowered himself, taking in his stiff penis with hardly any effort.

 

"Oh, God..." Mycroft muttered softly, biting his lips. Then he felt Greg's arse on his thighs and knew he was all the way in. No matter how often he experienced it, the sensation overwhelmed him each and every time. To be completely one with the man who was looking at him with a light in his dark brown eyes that was both naughty and tender before he began carefully moving up and down.

 

Mycroft closed his eyes. If he watched Greg pleasuring himself on him - with him - his self-control was going to be over and done with in no time flat.

 

But as Greg's movements increased in speed and that certain noise started up that Mycroft was all too familiar with, telling him that Gregory was masturbating while he rode him... he couldn't keep his eyes shut any longer. He simply had to look... had to see the proof right before him of how much Greg enjoyed performing this act with him... how shameless he was in his pleasure... how plain... how honest his desire was... But no sooner had Mycroft opened his eyes and seen Greg leaning his head back... Mycroft's name on his parted lips... his hand moving rapidly over his swollen member... the rhythmic slap of skin against flesh... the ripple of muscles beneath reddened skin... it was all over for him, and he spent himself unchecked in Gregory's body.

 

"Always so undisciplined..." Greg murmured from above him with a hoarse sigh, and Mycroft's cheeks flushed in shame. Greg's next words cast things in a new light, however: "That is soooo hot," he panted, his fingers flying faster and faster over his hard shaft. "All because of me... how you... lose control for me... God... so... so... hot... yeah... YES!" Greg groaned, and his sperm sprayed all over Mycroft's stomach.

 

Later - as they lay in bed, sharing a cigarette - Greg broke the silence with the first of two questions that had been burning on his tongue for a while now.

 

"Donovan?" he asked, keeping his query purposely brief.

 

"Nothing yet," Mycroft replied lazily. He felt sleepy and hated the thought of having to leave the bed and the warm body beside him.

 

"Hm," Greg said vaguely before venturing on to the second question that simply wouldn't leave him alone. "You were just kidding, weren't you?"

 

"I never kid," Mycroft answered matter-of-factly. "But I can't entirely exclude the possibility. To what, precisely, are you referring?"

 

Greg tried to gain some time by taking another drag on the cigarette.

 

"When you said you'd... you know... have my wife _taken care of_ if I didn't... if I didn't get a divorce... That was just a joke, right? You only said that so I'd get my arse in gear and finally do something. Right?" He passed the cigarette back to Mycroft.

 

Mycroft caught himself also trying to buy time with the cigarette.

 

"Possibly," he finally said in a disinterested tone, adding a tight smile that took some effort to squeeze out.

 

Greg snorted and pinched him playfully in the side. It appeared he'd interpreted the answer in a way he could live with.

 

Truthfully, Mycroft didn't know what the real answer was. Would he really have contracted a murder? Or had he only said it to put pressure on Greg and force his hand?

 

He didn't know.

 

He honestly didn't know.

 

All he did know was that there wasn't much he wouldn't do in order not to have to share Greg with anyone. Not even with his unloved, indifferent, adulterous wife.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

"It's going down tomorrow, starting bright and early. I told Eleanor to pack a bag for me," John said in a firm voice as he and Sherlock went downstairs after breakfast.

 

Sherlock took a deep breath, waited a moment, then blurted out the sentence he'd been repeating for the past two days almost like a mantra:

 

"I don't want you to go."

 

John took a deep breath as well before speaking in a deliberately calm tone that Call-Me-Ella would have been proud of: "Sherlock. We've been all through this. I've explained it to you often enough now. I need to be there when the diamonds arrive. I need to be in Harwich when the ferry lands out of that Dutch backwater. I need to check out the place where we're going to temporarily store the delivery. I have to be there. We couldn't plan every little detail beforehand. You know that. You were there every time Mike and I discussed it. Once the operation's underway, we're probably going to have to improvise... think fast... stay a step ahead of the police and customs officials. I can't be entirely certain whether Moran got wind of it somehow and gave us away. Sherlock - this deal is too important. It has to work. It HAS to. If I come up with another flop here, then... my life won't be worth a brass penny." John reached for Sherlock's hand and squeezed it. Sherlock let him, if somewhat grudgingly. "And now stop pouting... I need you here in London. You need to hold down the fort and take care of bail and a lawyer if Mike and I get busted in Harwich," John said in a half-hearted attempt at humour.

 

A particularly unhappy look came into those pale eyes. "That's precisely what I mean!" Sherlock objected. "It's too dangerous. This is why I don't want you to go."

 

"And here I thought the only reason you don't want me to go is because you're going to miss me," John went on in the same light-hearted vein.

 

"That too," Sherlock grumbled grumpily. "Just when the bedroom's finally done and..."

 

"...we _still_ need a bed," John completed the sentence in a mocking tone.

 

"We could just take a mattress and..." Sherlock persisted.

 

They'd reached the bottom of the stairs by now, and John pulled Sherlock - bristling and protesting weakly - into his arms.

 

"It's just three or four nights," John told him patiently. "And if we still don't have a bed by then... then we can go ahead and move in with a couple of mattresses on the floor, and … _inaugurate_ the room." The last bit was said with a salacious undertone. "Which reminds me... I don't want you playing with yourself while I'm gone. No wanking, no frotting into a pillow, no playing with the massage function in the shower. You're only to touch your prick to piss, shave, and wash."

 

The sulky expression slowly gave way to one of piqued interest, which was reflected in the twinkling, partially veiled look Sherlock now gave John.

 

"So I'm meant to remain completely... abstinent?" he asked in a deep voice, nestling into John's arms even more.

 

"Exactly," John agreed, grinning broadly. "No orgasms, no ejaculation, no nothing. I want you to be on a knife's edge when I come back," he rumbled at Sherlock, who quivered in John's arms at the words.

 

"God..." Sherlock whispered hoarsely. "You do realise that I'll need to change my pants approximately every three hours starting tomorrow?"

 

John ran one hand down Sherlock's back and grabbed his arse with the other.

 

"Because you can't control yourself and are going to leak all over at the first thought of me?" he growled at him.

 

Sherlock nodded fervently. "Who knows... it might be... too hard for me..." he suggested. "I might pleasure myself anyway... you'd never know."

 

"Would you really lie to me?" John asked sternly. Against his hip, he could feel the hardness that was slowly but surely forming between Sherlock's legs.

 

"Maybe..." Sherlock answered in an unsteady voice.

 

"Maybe..." John began, pronouncing the word with a particularly ironic emphasis, "… _maybe_ I should lock you - or rather, your dick - up for the next couple of days," he went on, pretending to give it serious consideration. "I just so happened to see a couple of very interesting contraptions for male chastity on the internet recently... plastic penis cages... metal tubes... with quaint little padlocks on them... which only I would have a key for... I'd be the only one who could release you from your plight... you would be completely at the mercy of my whims." John's heart rate accelerated at the thought. The heady notion of power and control would never fail to fascinate him. He wanted to see Sherlock suffer a little... but he'd prefer it be in a different manner than those devices allowed. He wanted to test Sherlock's self-control, wanted to make him be the instrument of his own torture... he wanted to force his will on Sherlock... but not with lock and key... rather with nothing more than his expressed wishes and his words. That was what John really wanted. Submission given freely and with a glad heart.

 

"Well?" John asked. "Do you think a padlock is necessary?"

 

"I... I don't know," Sherlock stammered. His arousal had only increased during John's descriptions, and the physical manifestation thereof pressed very insistently against John's hip.

 

"I don't think so..." John decided, drawing his words out. "And do you know why?" He waited for Sherlock to shake his head before continuing. "Because you're a lousy liar. I always know when you aren't telling me the whole truth. Always. If I tell you not to wank... and you do it anyway... and then lie to me when I come back... I'd know right away." The clear, pale eyes sent an extremely shocked look in his direction, and Sherlock stiffened in his arms. John immediately ran his hand through the dark curls in a calming gesture, and Sherlock relaxed a bit again. "I'd see it in your eyes... Eyes... the window to the soul - that's what they say, isn't it? I've never met anyone else who fit that saying so perfectly. Your eyes can't lie... and... I trust you."

 

John looked steadfastly into Sherlock's eyes. Those fascinating eyes, which still contained unplumbed depths. Depths that Sherlock wanted to hide from him, since John could tell Sherlock would have preferred to turn away or lower his gaze, at the very least. Yet he didn't, instead bravely returning John's gaze. It troubled John that he was the cause of such latent sadness, and the wish arose in him to gain entry to Sherlock through those eyes... to climb inside with a torch... a flare... a thousand-watt spotlight, in order to drive away the last scrap of darkness from the furthest corner of Sherlock's soul... to chase away everything Sherlock was still afraid of with his light... to destroy everything that still weighed heavy upon him...

 

But a single blink from Sherlock was enough to put an end to the fantasy. John ascertained with a feeling of resignation that Sherlock wasn't about to pour out his heart and ease his conscience today either... he apparently still wasn't ready. The thought caused John pain - unforeseen and sharp - but who could blame Sherlock for his lack of trust? After everything... after everything that had happened.

 

John understood this. It was probably just the wrong time. On the other hand, all he'd wanted to do was offer Sherlock a bridge... a bridge that would have made it possible for Sherlock to own up to his last secrets, to confess them, to free himself from their burden. Because there was still something. John knew it. He simply knew it. He'd had a suspicion what it was about for a while now, but he wasn't one hundred percent certain. Certainty was a damned relative and abstract concept anyway, where Sherlock was concerned.

 

Fine - he'd give Sherlock more time. He'd be ready some day... ready to let John in on everything... to include him in everything... to share everything with him.

 

But until then...

 

"I could help you out a little, of course," John said, returning to the conversation as if the almost uncomfortably intense eye contact between them had never taken place. "I could make it a bit easier on you... so that you can get through the next few days without me... Should I do that for you? Hm?" He threaded his fingers through the dark curls with a gentle yet firm motion, tugged on them lightly, and just like that Sherlock was putty in his hands.

 

"Yes... please, John... help me... so that I don't... become disobedient..." Sherlock whispered in a voice that had slid down an entire octave and did unspeakable things to John's libido.

 

"All right..." John answered him, his voice raw. "Get in the office - the quicker the better." He wasn't happy about releasing the warm body from his arms, and Sherlock was equally reticent to step away from the embrace.

 

Once they were both in the office and had locked the door behind them as a precaution, John sat down on the chair behind his desk. Sherlock watched him, both wary and curious, his desire clear.

 

"Come here," John said, patting his desk to clarify the instruction. "Open your trousers and pull them down to your knees... pants too... hands on the table." John slid back on his chair a bit to make room for Sherlock, who in turn hurried to comply with the order. "Very nice..." John murmured, enjoying the sight of the unclothed arse, the small, puckered entrance and the full testicles that just peeked out between the partially spread legs.

 

John took a tube of lubricant out of one of the desk drawers (it was a good thing they had deposited the necessary supplies all over the house) and smeared some on the first two fingers of his left hand.

 

"Do you remember the second time we met?"

 

"Of course," Sherlock breathed out, arching his back insistently. All of a sudden, however, he broke off mid-motion. "John?" he asked in alarm. "You're not going to..."

 

"Oh yes," John confirmed with a fiendish grin, even though Sherlock couldn't see it. "I am!"

 

A peculiar sound emerged from Sherlock's throat: half whimper, half moan.

 

"Prostate massage... John... are you going to... milk me?"

 

"Absolutely," John answered with a hint of a tease. "And not just once, either. I want to see you here in front of me in an hour again... in exactly the same position. I'm going to stimulate your prostate until everything comes out... just that... no orgasm... and again an hour after that... over and over... and I'm going to do it until nothing more comes out... until your balls are as dry as the Sahara, and then... then I'm going to take you upstairs... lay you out on the bed... and then I'm going to fuck you until you can't see or hear straight anymore..."

 

"Oh God... John..." This time it was unmistakably a sob. John put his right hand on Sherlock's hip.

 

"Sherlock..." He spoke very calmly now, slow and clear. "Your safeword... if you want to use it... then do it. If you want to break this off, just say so... all you need to say is ' _Vatican cameos_ ' and... we'll do something else. Okay? Are you listening?"

 

"Mhm," Sherlock said.

 

"And?" John asked slowly. "Do you want to use your safeword?"

 

"John..." Sherlock groaned, and now it sounded rather annoyed. "What for? Why should I use my safeword now, of all times? Can you tell me... ooooohhhhh..."

 

John hadn't waited for the end of the rant, instead penetrating Sherlock directly with two fingers. After all these months, he knew Sherlock's body backwards and forwards, and his fingers slid easily in, right to the slight protrusion deep inside. It turned out to be unexpectedly difficult, however, to trigger an emission without sending Sherlock into quivering arousal and bringing about an orgasm as he usually did. John took concentrated breaths through his nose and made a concerted effort to keep his own lust in check. He traced his fingers in tiny circles around the collection of nerve endings, letting his fingertips press directly onto it again and again.

 

He knew - without needing to check for himself - that Sherlock's penis was completely erect, and he wondered whether he was really going to be able to prevent Sherlock from reaching orgasm... but then Sherlock's knees began to tremble, and John rubbed a little more forcefully over that specific spot. He felt a gentle twitch, a slight pulsing around his fingers, and then he heard a tortured whimper.

 

"There, now doesn't that feel better?" John asked in a patronising manner that he knew would drive Sherlock batty. Sure enough, Sherlock gave him a murderous glare over his shoulder, although there was also something akin to surrender in it. John pulled out his fingers and wiped them on a tissue. "Well, I have to hand it to you at least... you didn't beg for an orgasm."

 

Sherlock turned around with a sigh and leaned back against the edge of the table, his energy flagging. His penis was still half hard.

 

"If there had been any point, I would undoubtedly have done so," Sherlock declared. "This way, however... I've just soiled your desk. I do hope that letter wasn't very important," he concluded with fake regret.

 

John glanced at the paper and frowned.

 

"You could have moved it aside."

 

"Oh, could I?" Sherlock asked. "Without specific instructions? Wouldn't dream of it."

 

John gave him a sharp look. "You're going to regret that," he said with an insincerely sweet smile.

 

"I hope so!" Sherlock retorted cheerfully and pulled up his clothes.

 

"Do you still have those glasses?" John asked out of the blue.

 

He was met with a look of surprise. "The … glasses?"

 

"Yes, the glasses," John repeated, starting to get impatient. "What did you want to play with me that one time? _The easy secretary and the randy boss_?"

 

" _Slutty secretary and strict boss_ ," Sherlock automatically corrected him. "Yes, I... I still have the glasses somewhere. Should I..."

 

John nodded. "Find them... and come back here in an hour."

 

A plump lower lip pushed forward in a pout. "Why can't I stay here?"

 

"Because neither you nor I are going to get any kind of work done that way," John explained, this time with true regret. "And because I really do have some things to take care of here."

 

"And what am I supposed to do for an entire hour?!" Sherlock griped. "I'm already bored!"

 

John gave him an indulgent smile. "I suppose you can get things set up in the new bathroom. I'd really prefer it if _you_ would move everything into the new cupboards... before I have to ask someone else to do it."

 

Sherlock's eyes promptly lit up at the suggestion. "We... we're really moving in?" he asked, almost bashful.

 

"Of course we are," John assured him gently. "Did you really think we wouldn't?"

 

First there was half a nod, then a vehement shaking of his head, and then so much uncertainty showed on Sherlock's face that John stood up, kissed him tenderly on the lips and said to him softly, " _Idiot_."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

"Haaa... Oh God... John... it's... it's... aaahhh..."

 

"The saucer was a good idea... see? It's already less than the first time. I think three or four more times..."

 

"Three or four?!"

 

"Maybe more. It all depends on you. Now lick it all up, there's a good boy..."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

"Jooooohhhhnnnn..."

 

"Yeah, I know... it's getting uncomfortable now... of course, we could stop..."

 

"No, no... it's... it's all right... it's just... oooohhh fuuuuuck..."

 

"Sensitive, isn't it? Is it better when I do it like this?"

 

"Nnnggghhh..."

 

"I'll take that as a ' _ **no**_ '. All right, then I guess it's back to the old tried and true."

 

"John... don't... I..."

 

"Sherlock... you know what your safeword is for?"

 

"Yes... to interrupt an action... to … put an end to it."

 

"Right. That's exactly what it's for. And? Do you want to? Okay, you're shaking your head. That's what I thought. It won't take much longer... Just a little more... hmmm... yeah. See? Wasn't _that_ hard. All that sobbing and moaning for that little splodge..."

 

"Remind me to strangle you at the next opportunity."

 

"Love to. But you know what amazes me the most about the whole thing? Your cock never goes all the way soft. How does that feel? That faint undercurrent of arousal the whole time? Being constantly turned on? What's that like? Hm?"

 

"Unforgettable..."

 

"Speaking of... Sherlock - haven't you forgotten something? Don't you want to lick up this mess?"

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

"John... please... I can't anymore... there's nothing more coming... I... aaaahhh..."

 

John didn't let those words stop him from rubbing his fingers over Sherlock's sensitive prostate, which was by now thoroughly overstimulated. The readiness with which those slender legs spread for him belied all the whinging and sobbing - which was itself music to John's ears.

 

"Oh, I think there's a little more," he answered, unperturbed.

 

John secretly hoped that no more seminal fluid would emerge from the tiny slit. He wasn't going to be able to keep this up much longer himself. Sherlock wasn't the only one who had been subjected to a sweet kind of torture over the past few hours. The work had really helped for a while, successfully distracting John from his lecherous thoughts... but now he'd reached his limit. He wanted to push deep inside that willing, compliant body... wanted to stretch that tight opening... wanted to brush over those sore, sensitive nerve endings with his hard cock...

 

John had to close his eyes for a moment. His heart was beating like mad, his groin tightened, his erection throbbed. He bit down on his lips and, with almost grim resolution, kept stroking his fingers over the little bulge inside the hot body which was tossed to and fro between convulsions, exhaustion, and relief.

 

"Bloody sadist," Sherlock rasped, spreading his legs just a little more.

 

John laughed, and Sherlock shivered. Then all of a sudden he gasped for air, his knees trembled, and he started panting. John quickly put his free hand up over Sherlock's mouth to stop him from hyperventilating. The muscles around John's fingers quivered in a light, fluttering pulsation, and - accompanied by a weak cry - a few drops forced their way out of Sherlock's penis, where they sluggishly dripped down the glans.

 

The saucer remained clean. The amount of fluid was too minimal to be affected by the law of gravity.

 

"Okay, that's enough," John said roughly and pulled his fingers out of Sherlock's arse as carefully as he could. "That was totally..." One final shudder ran through the slender body, and then John felt a kiss on the palm of his hand. He fell silent, unable to finish the sentence he'd started. He took his hand away from Sherlock's face, feeling both surprised and a bit off-balance, and listened to the heavy breathing which slowly began to normalise. "That was completely..." he tried again, but he could not for the life of him think of an adequate description or appropriate adjective for what had just happened. In the end he simply cleared his throat. "If you'd rather..."

 

Sherlock straightened up from where he was hunched over the desk and turned around - and without even meaning to, John fell right into the depths of those fascinating eyes.

 

"Bedroom," Sherlock growled at him. It almost sounded like the purring of a huge, self-satisfied cat. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he removed the black horn-rimmed glasses he'd been wearing this whole time. "Bed. Sex. Now."

 

John had absolutely no quarrel with either that compelling statement nor the even more compelling look in Sherlock's eyes. He swallowed, his throat dry, and nodded.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Although Sherlock's exhaustion was written all over his face, he reacted extremely enthusiastically to John's initial thrusts. He wrapped his legs around John's hips and, with a throaty sigh, arched his back in order to better be able to take John's erection in even deeper.

 

For John, it was simply unbelievable. Hot and tight, the muscles tense and clenched yet still pliant and loose enough to allow him to penetrate them without any difficulty. Every part of Sherlock seemed to vibrate with pent-up arousal. John deliberately settled for slow, deep strokes at first, each one of them greeted by a long, drawn-out sigh from Sherlock.

 

"Like this?" John asked, his voice raw, and pulled one of Sherlock's legs up over his shoulder.

 

"You have to ask?" Sherlock retorted breathlessly, stroking his erection, which stood up at an angle to his body, stiff and thick.

 

When Sherlock bit down on his lower lip and leaned his head back, John started thrusting harder and faster.

 

"Mmmhhh... yessss... oh, John... God, that's incredible... I... I think... I'm melting... so hot... so, so hot..." Sherlock groaned, and John put Sherlock's other leg over his shoulder too.

 

"Wank your prick," John panted. "Do it properly... I..." John felt Sherlock's knuckles brushing against his abdomen in a rapid rhythm. John held himself up with his arms on either side of Sherlock's head and pounded even harder and faster into the body writhing beneath him.

 

"Yes... yes..." Sherlock stammered, tossing his head from side to side. "Oh God... I think... I think I'm..."

 

A fraction of a second later, the muscles deep inside Sherlock clenched together almost painfully around John's erection, practically ripping his orgasm from him. John pushed in deep one last time... thrust once more, and then lost himself in his pleasure. The only thing he was aware of was everything twitching and throbbing around him, Sherlock pulling taut beneath him like a violin string. Then John looked up, as if in a daze, just in time to catch Sherlock flinging both eyes and mouth open... disbelieving... ecstatic... his erect cock swelling even further... the little slit puffing up and twitching...

 

Sherlock arched upwards... his entire body throbbed, seemed poised to explode, and then he screamed as John had never heard him scream before.

 

When all was quiet once again and John's ears were only ringing slightly, the wide-open eyes regained their focus on John's face.

 

"Incredible..." Sherlock panted feverishly before his eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped down and collapsed.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Mike was already slightly out of sorts when he set foot in the entry hall of John's house. Susan was making life miserable for him because he wanted to go with John to Harwich. Although... ' _wanted_ ' was perhaps the wrong word - it was more like ' _had to_ '. There was simply no way around the fact that both of them needed to be seen in Harwich in order to ensure that the deal went down smoothly.

 

And now neither John nor Sherlock was answering their phones, which was why Mike was stopping by on his way home to make sure everything was all right.

 

But what was he going to get for this act of self-sacrificing friendship? John was probably going to yell at him, Sherlock was going to make fun of him, and Susan... Mike sighed heavily. Susan was probably going to burn his fry-up in retaliation if he didn't get home on time tonight.

 

Just as he was praying he wouldn't find John and Sherlock snogging in the office, a blood-curdling scream sounded through the entire house, coming from somewhere upstairs.

 

Mike didn't waste a second before running up the stairs as if he were twenty years younger and eighty pounds lighter.

 

Braced for the worst, he tore open the bedroom door, not caring what the consequences might be. A moment later, he saw Sherlock draped in John's arms, one of his own arms hanging lifelessly over the edge of the mattress. Stunned, his brain tried to make sense of the tableau, but all it could come up with were comparisons to Michelangelo's ' _Pietà_ ', which was less than helpful.

 

"Oh my God, John!" Mike cried out in horror. "You killed him! This time you actually killed him!" He reached for the door to steady himself. His eyes were inexorably drawn to Sherlock's face, its deathly pallor emphasised by the frame of dark curls and the surreal red lips.

 

"Fuck's sake, Mike!" John barked at him, laying two fingers against Sherlock's neck. "Quit with the nonsense. Make yourself useful instead and bring me a glass of water."

 

"Water?" Mike repeated numbly.

 

"Yes, water," John confirmed. "He just fainted."

 

"Fai..." Mike's brain slowly began to combine the additional information into a new interpretation of the situation. "Goddammit, John!" he then shouted angrily. "I almost had a heart attack! I hope it was bloody hot, at least."

 

"More than," John replied with a broad grin. "And now go get that water."

 

Mike was about to go when Sherlock's eyelids fluttered and he moaned softly.

 

John immediately leaned over him. "Sherlock... how do you feel?" he asked more gently than Mike had ever heard his friend speak.

 

"Again," Sherlock demanded in a weak voice.

 

John chuckled.

 

Mike rolled his eyes and went to get the water. On the way to the bathroom, he muttered to himself, "Mental. Completely mental. The both of them."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

"Patrick O'Malley?"

 

Patrick looked up from his beer and checked out the stranger standing before him in his Londonderry local.

 

"Who wants to know?"

 

A vague smile passed across the other man's face. "Call me Sergeij," he said, taking a seat across from Patrick.

 

Patrick raised his eyebrows. "You speak bloody good English for a Russian."

 

The faint smile re-appeared. "Do you remember Sally Donovan?" Sergeij asked.

 

"Why should I?" Patrick retorted.

 

Sergeij silently shoved a stack of bank notes across the table. Patrick eyed both him and the money suspiciously, but he reached for the bundle anyway and tucked it into his pocket.

 

"Was with her in the home. Not like it's a secret or nothing." He shrugged and took a sip of his beer. "She in trouble?"

 

"What makes you think that?"

 

"Nothing... just that she hung out with some odd blokes back then. First she let that Powers do her, then she was always gadding about with that queer fellow, what's his name..." Patrick frowned and scratched his head.

 

"Someone else from the orphanage?" Sergeij pressed him. "I have some names here..."

 

"No, no," Patrick waved off the suggestion. "He lived in the same street... with his parents and... I think he had a couple of brothers and sisters. Their house burnt down. All of them dead. Except the fellow. Sally supposedly pulled him out of the house before it collapsed. Was a big brouhaha about it back in the day. There wasn't never such a big fire round there before. If you ask me, though, he wasn't even in the house. He was sticking it to that little slapper behind the shed in his parents' garden when the whole thing went down. But everyone made the little floozy out to be some kind of hero or something. I'm fairly certain they even took up a collection for her so she could join the force in Belfast... something like that anyhow. She turned eighteen a couple weeks later and hightailed it out of there."  
  
Sergeij had taken a piece of paper out of his jacket and now stared at it, frowning. "Powers... Carl Powers?" he asked.

 

"Yeah." Patrick nodded. "Carl Powers. She started out having it off with him. Then he drowned in the pond we used to go swimming in when it was hot in the summer." He laughed. "He either had the tart with him that day or he was soft in the head."

 

"What do you mean?" Sergeij wondered.

 

"Was skinny-dipping, the nutter. Naked as God made him!" Patrick laughed again. "None of us would've even thought of something like that." He drained his glass. "Jim!" he crowed all of a sudden.

 

"Jim?" Sergeij echoed. "Is that the name of the other boy Sally Donovan went round with?"

 

" _Went round with_..." Patrick muttered sarcastically, with an oily grin. "Spread her legs... that's what she did. _Went round._.." He shook his head. "Yeah... the bloke's name was Jim. They made a big fuss over him at the school because he was supposed to be so clever. Got a scholarship or something and took off too. Well - after the fire, I mean. Didn't stick around for long. I still remember how everyone was all up in arms because he didn't even stay for the funeral. That's when the talk started. Like they were saying he might've started the fire himself." Patrick shook his head again. "It was fairly peculiar when you think about it. Burnt right down to the foundation."

 

"And his last name?" Sergeij asked, signalling to the waitress. Moments later, a fresh beer stood on the table in front of his companion.

 

"Cheers, mate," Patrick said, raising his glass to him. "Moller... Molinay..." he mused out loud. "No, that wasn't it... Something like... AH! Moriarty! Jim Moriarty. Man, was he a swot. Always had his nose in some book or other. No idea what that totty saw in him."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_**To be continued...** _

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

PIC!

 

There really is a ferry connection between Harwich and Hoek in Holland:

<http://www.directferries.de/harwich_hoek_van_holland_faehre.htm>

 

The winter festival in Hyde Park is a real thing too:

<http://www.hydeparkwinterwonderland.com/>

Unfortunately, I couldn't find out whether the mayor actually opens the Winter Wonderland with an official speech like I've depicted it here in my story. But I wrote it this way because here in Germany the mayor usually opens public festivals... and gets the first glass of beer!

 

Long live research! (“how many orgasms until shooting blanks”)

<https://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20091204134307AAnkRpW>

<https://www.reddit.com/r/askgaybros/comments/2dtatm/does_anyone_keep_chainmasturbating_until_theyre/>

 

And here's a nice picture of Michelangelo's Pietà:

 


	44. Bringing Light to the Darkness - Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation by the wonderful SwissMiss!
> 
> WARNING!!!!! This chapter contains mentions of self-harm practices (cutting) and a description of the aftercare.  
> I also should mention that I had to rely completely on my imagination. If something is wrong – please don't be too cross with me.

**WARNING!!!!! This chapter contains mentions of self-harm practices (cutting) and a description of the aftercare.**

**I also should mention that I had to rely completely on my imagination. If something is wrong – please don't be too cross with me.**

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

**Chapter 44 - Bringing Light to the Darkness - Part 2**

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

The weather in Harwich was miserable. The steady wind blowing off the sea penetrated even John's warmest woollen coat. It felt like his bones were freezing from the inside with no hope of spring, no hope of ever thawing out. He complained about it to Mike, who was walking beside him as they wandered the streets looking for a halfway decent restaurant for lunch (the place they'd had dinner at the night before being out of the question for a second meal).

 

Mike simply gave him a peculiar sidelong look.

 

"What?!" John said.

 

"Oh, nothing..." Mike replied. A broad grin threatened to break out on his face. "It's just that I don't find it so terribly cold. True, it's a little windy and..."

 

"You have a lot more padding than I do," John grumbled moodily.

 

"No need to turn green," Mike retorted. That conjured up a weak smile from John.

 

They walked on without saying anything. After a bit, Mike mentioned, "You miss him."

 

John simply said, "Yeah," and they kept going.

 

They finally found a pub with a selection that sounded good to them and had lunch there. After eating they planned to visit one of their men - a dock worker - to discuss what he was to do when the ferry arrived the next afternoon with its precious cargo.

 

That was the reason for them taking a different route than they'd followed on the way there, one which led them past several shops. The usual tourist shops, clothing boutiques, watchmakers, bookshops, small supermarkets and even a florist's stood in a colourful row, offering a distraction to the weary eye. But when their path took them past an antiques dealer, John slowed his steps.

 

In the display window, alongside a jumble of cameos, tarnished silverware, delicate teacups and tasteless paintings of half-naked nymphs and startlingly frivolous angels, hung a piece of paper with a large photograph and a price - as ludicrous as it was high - written next to it. A brief description completed the offer. It wasn't so much the picture that drew John's attention, but the caption over the image:

 

_'Genuine Victorian four-poster bed'_

 

The photo showed precisely that.

 

John stopped in his tracks.

 

The bed in the picture was made of dark wood - mahogany, according to the description - and decorated with various carvings. Just like John's current bedroom furniture, this one had four upright posts at the corners, but - unlike his bed at the moment - these were fixed at the top to a frame where curtains could be attached or a canopy draped across. The upper frame was stabilised with cross-bars that would be perfectly suited to wind ropes around...

 

The twisting, sculpted bedposts also offered several options for securing equipment...

 

And even the headboard - which was of medium height and trimmed with various decorative grooves - seemed to be virtually made to grab onto... to display the marks of Sherlock's fingernails when he clawed into it in the throes of ecstasy... on his hands and knees... with John settled between his splayed thighs...

 

White skin on blue sheets... a spring breeze wafting in through the open windows... warm and fragrant... airy, billowing bedcurtains of a gauzy material in the same shade of blue as the walls and sheets... their own blue cocoon... as endless as the sky... as the sea... as a dream... the smell of sweat and semen... Sherlock's sweet cries...

 

John had his credit card in his hand before he'd so much as set foot in the shop.

 

He didn't even hear Mike's bewildered "John?"

 

He could hardly wait to sink down into the soft swells of their blue bed together with Sherlock... to become one in it, rocking gently... to drown in the wild eddies of bliss... to submerge, gasping for breath... to pull Sherlock down into the depths with him... to push him down into the filth... to defile him... to humiliate him... to subdue him... to make him hurt... over and over again... and at the same time to worship him... to venerate him... to put him up on a pedestal... to lie down at his feet... and to surface with him again... seeking redemption... to be wrested away by the current... to shatter against the cliffs... together... with Sherlock... for all time.

 

"Do you deliver to London?" John asked the man behind the old-fashioned cash register.

 

"Well..." the man began. He didn't seem particularly enthusiastic.

 

"Money is no object," John said, facilitating his decision.

 

The man twitched briefly before a greedy gleam appeared in his eyes. He performed a slight bow and said, "How may I be of service?"

 

"John!" Mike panted behind him. "What are you doing? That's just some old worm-riddled bed. Let me haggle for the price."

 

"Mike, you don't understand," John said, negating any argument. "That's not just any bed. It's _the perfect bed_."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_Jim sat on the edge of the pond, lost in thought as he stared at the clouded surface. He liked sitting here. Liked being alone. Just him and his thoughts and the memory of Carl's body, the way it had floated there in the greenish water. So quiet. So peaceful._

 

_A branch snapped somewhere behind him, but Jim stayed where he was, unbothered. He knew Sally's light gait by now._

 

_"It's not okay, what you're doing," she said as she sat down beside him in the grass. "You and your gang."_

 

_"What are you going to do about it?" he asked. Although he liked Sally, in a way, he wouldn't have had a problem shoving her into the pond and pulling her remorselessly under the water, just like Carl, until the last air bubbles had disappeared... the jerking of her muscles becoming weaker and weaker... until they finally stopped altogether..._

 

_"Nothing," she replied, pushing her curly hair out of her face. "They wouldn't believe me anyway. You're the perfect model student - no one would believe you're the head of a gang." She paused a moment before continuing: "You're much cleverer than Carl. Everyone suspected there was something going on already... something organised... but now?" She shrugged. "You're going about it much better than him."_

 

_"Hm," Jim said, but he was secretly rather flattered by the somewhat awkwardly stated praise._

 

_"And... there's something else," Sally said hesitantly. "The boys... before... when Carl was... They used to spit at me when no one was looking... and they..." Her voice sank to a barely audible whisper. "They called me... a nigger whore and... they knocked me around... pulled my hair... That- they don't do that anymore." She took a deep breath and looked around, her eyes wild. "That was you, wasn't it? You told them to stop. Didn't you?"_

 

_Before Jim could answer, she stood up abruptly and pulled her lightweight summer dress over her head. She was nude underneath. Jim swallowed._

 

_"What are you doing?" he asked, stunned._

 

_"What does it look like?" she retorted with an odd combination of disinterest and mockery._

 

_"And why are you doing it?"_

 

_"You know, so that you... so you can..." She looked to the side, away from him. "You know what."_

 

_His gaze wandered over her thin, almost boyish body. He saw how she trembled, the way her small brown nipples contracted and peaked._

 

_"No, Sal," he said softly. "Put it back on."_

 

_To his astonishment, tears came to her eyes. "I'm too ugly for you, is that it? Everyone says I'm... I'm ugly... even Carl... Carl always said I should be happy he even... I should be grateful... at least I wouldn't die a virgin."_

 

_"No, Sal," Jim said more strongly and stood up. "You aren't ugly..." She looked at him. Tears ran down her cheeks and her lower lip quivered. She was practically still a child. Her inability to express her gratitude in any other way than offering her body to be used set off a strange reaction in Jim, one he was completely unfamiliar with but he thought might be called sympathy. "You're my girl," Jim said softly. "My strong, beautiful girl."_

 

_Sally's expression changed. Her tears stopped and for the first time in his life, Jim found himself the recipient of a look full of hero worship._

 

_It wasn't half bad._

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

The first day without John was more or less bearable.

 

Sherlock took care of the mail and all the other tasks that came up, and then undertook an intense study of the structure of John's organisation. That would hopefully give him enough to do to keep him busy for two or three days and distract him from missing John. He barely touched the food that Mrs Turner served him at noon and in the evening (John had given Jacques time off from work for the duration of his absence). The cook noted it with a disapproving shake of her head, but Sherlock didn't pay her any mind.

 

At the end of the first day he was already in bed when John called. They only spoke briefly, but at least it helped Sherlock to sleep soundly.

 

On the morning of the second day, he woke to a hard-on between his legs and the vague memory of an extremely erotic dream. Remembering his promise to John, he took a cold shower, which eradicated the problem in record time.

 

Trying to make sense of John's organisation turned out not to be as distracting as Sherlock hoped. He'd already memorised the boroughs and their heads by lunchtime and his thoughts turned inexorably to John. He left his lunch untouched and slunk through the house with a woebegone expression on his face. He knew he looked like a dog missing its master, and that annoyed him. He tried to distract himself with music... to listen to an opera... but it wasn't the same without John. Sherlock hated himself a little for having become so dependent on another person... he, who had always set such a high value on being self-sufficient... on being independent...

 

What had become of all that?!

 

Oh right... he'd fallen in love.

 

Sherlock sighed and fingered John's handkerchief in his trouser pocket. He'd been carrying it around with him ever since John had left the house. If only he were at least allowed to call him... but John had made it abundantly clear that a call at the wrong time could have catastrophic consequences... and Sherlock understood that. A mobile phone ring tone - or even just a vibration - at a crucial moment could distract John or give away his position. At the thought of losing John, Sherlock's entire body cramped up and he felt sick. The need for a cigarette became almost overwhelming.

 

Sherlock didn't know exactly how it happened, but at some point during the afternoon he found himself in the kitchen. Mrs Turner pushed him down onto a chair at the big kitchen table, smiling indulgently, and set about heating up some hot cocoa on the cooker. This wasn't the first time Sherlock had been in John's - or rather, Mrs Turner's - kitchen. But this was the first time he stayed longer than a couple of minutes. And it was... rather pleasant.

 

Mrs Turner nattered on about everything and nothing, Thomas grinned while he cleaned some shoes, and Eleanor sewed buttons onto his and John's shirts, blushing faintly when she noticed Sherlock watching her. Sherlock's cheeks turned pink as well when he recalled how and in the course of which activity those shirts had lost their buttons in the first place. He quickly hid his face in his cup and drank the hot cocoa that Mrs Turner had prepared especially for him. It tasted of childhood and happiness and comfort.

 

"Thomas! Wash your hands and set the table. The food's ready," Mrs Turner's voice rang out through the kitchen in a tone that said she was used to giving orders, returning Sherlock to the present.

 

"Aye-aye, ma'am!" Thomas responded enthusiastically. He cleared the shoes and brushes away with alacrity and set the table for everyone, sliding a plate in front of Sherlock, which Mrs Turner then filled with a spicy, fragrant stew.

 

"No, I... I'm not hungry," Sherlock said self-consciously, pushing the plate away.

 

"Stuff and nonsense," Mrs Turner waved off his objection and put a slice of bread on the serviette beside his plate. "What do you think Mr Watson will say to me when he comes home and finds you nothing but skin and bones?"

 

That was a good argument, and Sherlock surrendered to it. John would be anything but pleased if he got wind of Sherlock's hunger strike. He obediently pulled the plate closer and started eating.

 

"That's the way, Mr Sigerson," Mrs Turner said smugly. "And as long as Mr Watson isn't here, you'd best take all of your meals here in the kitchen so I can be sure you're actually eating them."

 

When Mrs Turner put a plate of chocolate walnut biscuits in front of him, he was reminded so strongly of Mrs Hudson and his father's cook that he said, quite without thinking, "I prefer ginger nuts," only to immediately snap his mouth shut and look up at Mrs Turner in horror.

 

But Mrs Turner merely smiled. "That's good to know. I'll bake ginger nuts for you tomorrow."

 

Sherlock returned her smile shyly, and a warm sensation spread through his chest.

 

When Sherlock's phone rang that evening, announcing John's call, he felt more in control and not quite as pitiful as he had earlier.

 

"John? I miss you," Sherlock said as soon as he'd accepted the call.

 

He heard a quick, almost relieved exhale on the other end of the line, followed by - soft but unmistakable - "I miss you more than I..." Another audible intake of breath. "...than I ever would have thought possible."

 

Sherlock's heart skipped a beat. Or at least it felt that way to him. The bedroom spun around him for a moment, and although he was lying down in bed, he felt dizzy. Should he say it now? Should he tell John he loved him? How _much_ he loved him, and how _terribly_ he missed him? Sherlock hesitated. He wanted to tell him. Right now. Right away. Before he lost his nerve. But... he wanted to look John in the eye when he did it. Wanted to look at him and tell him what he felt for him. Wanted to breathlessly await his reaction. Wanted...

 

But none of that was possible over the phone, not to mention that a confession like that might have a detrimental effect on John's plans. John's thoughts might end up elsewhere in a decisive moment... and that would end up putting him in danger. No, Sherlock couldn't be responsible for something like that. With a heavy heart, he pressed his lips firmly together.

 

Fortunately, John didn't notice Sherlock's unusual silence, since he was already rattling on excitedly: "Sherlock, I've... I bought a bed today. And I know, I bought it without asking you... but it's perfect, Sherlock, it's absolutely perfect."

 

"You really found a bed?" Sherlock asked. His voice was filled with so much happiness and hope that John chuckled softly to himself.

 

"You're not upset?" John asked, relieved.

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Should I be?"

 

"Yes, because they're delivering it and setting it up tomorrow morning, and you..." John's tone became more stern. "… you're not to lay a single eye on it until I'm back."

 

"You can't be serious!" Sherlock smouldered. "You know perfectly well I'll die of curiosity before then!"

 

"Is it so wrong of me to want to see your face when you see it for the first time?" John cut in gently, and Sherlock - who recognised his own, quite similar desire in the request - understood John better than he could ever know.

 

"No, it isn't," Sherlock finally acquiesced. "All right, fine. I won't peek through the keyhole. I'll wait until you're here. When are you returning?"  
  
"If everything goes well, tomorrow night. And... it might be a good idea... if you were... _prepared_ ," John informed him in a rough voice.

 

A pleasant shiver ran down Sherlock's back, ending up between his legs, where a certain part of his anatomy twitched hopefully.

 

"Should I use the anal beads again?" he asked.

 

"No, wear the golden plug, all right?" John told him.

 

Sherlock nodded eagerly before remembering John couldn't see him. "Yes, John," he hurried to assure him. His breathing even sounded heavy to his own ears.

 

"How many pairs of pants does that make today then?" John asked with a clear trace of amusement in his voice.

 

"Two," Sherlock answered, his cheeks burning red.

 

"Is that all?" John remarked in a suggestive tone.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_Jim Moriarty unlocked the door to the flat. It wasn't his flat, but he had a key. A key that Sally Donovan had entrusted him with on the day after she'd moved in._

 

_"Hello-ho!" Jim called out in a melodious voice as he entered the apartment. "Daddy's ho-home!"_

 

_A feeble "Jim?" filtered out from the kitchen, and Jim picked up his pace. He had a bad feeling. He knew that tone of voice... knew it all too well._

 

_"Sally? No matter what you're doing - stop it right now!" he said urgently, even before he saw the knife in Sally's hand. It was a small, sharp knife that was actually meant for cutting vegetables. Troubled, Jim cast a glance at the chaotic pattern Sally had carved into her lower arm._

 

_"Oh, Jim..." she moaned. She dropped the knife and slung her arms around her body, which was still much too thin._

 

_"Sal," Jim said. He embraced her gently, careful not to cage her in. "Oh, Sal... was it so bad again?"_

 

_Shaken by dry sobs, Sally nodded into the corner of his neck._

 

_"Shhh..." Jim said, rocking her a bit in his arms. "I'm here now. Is it better now?"_

 

_"Yeah," Sally murmured into the collar of his expensive suit. "When you're here, it... goes away..._

 

_It amazed Jim time and again how destructive the mere memory of a dead person could be - because Carl Powers was definitely dead... he'd personally made sure of it years ago. Yet those memories still surfaced in Sally's darkest hours, re-awakening her self-destructive behaviours._

 

_The procedure that followed once Sally had calmed down was always the same. He led her silently to the bathroom and doctored her self-inflicted wounds. He then usually undressed her, put a nightgown on her, and stayed with her until she'd fallen asleep._

 

_Jim had no idea what she did when he happened not to be around and she was left alone with her demons. They'd never talked about it. He knew it did happen, though. Sally was good at hiding the evidence of what she'd done under her sleeves, but she'd never been able to fool Jim. They had an unspoken agreement, however, that they ignored those injuries... acting as if they had never happened... unless Jim caught her in the act._

 

_When he'd taped the last bandage down on her arm that day, he broke his usual silence._

 

_"I need you, Sally," he said, his voice sliding up in pitch as he spoke. "You can't give up now."_

 

_Her jaw tensed. "What do you need me for?"_

 

_It wasn't so much a question as a soldier's request for marching orders._

 

_"That's my girl." Jim smiled, pleased. "Dimmock's days are numbered... and when that day comes, he's going to have an... explosive exit. And you..." He watched her from half-lidded eyes. "You're going to be his successor."_

 

_Sally nodded. She'd known Jim long enough to know those weren't just empty words or hollow promises. He was really going to find a way - or had already found one - to ensure that result would come about._

 

_"What should I do then?"_

 

_"Make life hard for Doc Watson, of course," Jim informed her. His light, cheerful sing-song made it abundantly clear how enthusiastic he was about the idea. "Oh, your collar rate is going to skyrocket. I'm going to personally ensure it."_

 

_"Good," was all Sally said. "Are you going to kill him? Should I cover it up?"_

 

_Jim shrugged his shoulders lazily. "I think some of his people will take care of that for me in the end. When I'm finished with him, he'll be as good as dead anyway and his pretty little organisation will belong to me." He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet with gleeful anticipation. "It's going to be fantastic." But then his expression darkened for a moment. "It's just a shame he's made a deal with the mayor after all - but never mind... what can we do... I'll take care of him as soon as Johnny-Boy's out of the picture. One thing at a time. No matter how fun and exciting it gets - you can't let yourself get distracted. Isn't that right, Sally?"_

 

_"Mhm," she agreed. He saw the moment had come at which sleepiness always overtook her. "Are you staying until I'm asleep?" was also her next question._

 

_"Don't I always?"_

 

_She held out her arms and he pulled her shirt up over her head. He knew he was the only man who had ever seen her naked, aside from Carl Powers. It was a completely unfounded and blind trust she placed in him, and one which, strangely enough, he didn't want to abuse._

 

_He led her to bed, pulled the covers over her, and lay down beside her on top of the blankets. He petted her tight curls until she fell asleep. Then he left. As silent as a shadow. As if he'd never been there._

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Having to show the three men the way to the new bedroom, watching as they hauled the well packed furniture up the stairs to the first floor, listening from the entry hall to the typical sounds of wooden parts being assembled, and not being able to be in there, not being allowed to watch, not being able to see... it was all pure torture for Sherlock.

 

But he'd promised John not to peek and he meant to keep that promise. Eleanor's pink cheeks after she'd finally put the blue sheets John had ordered on the bed - once the furniture movers had left - didn't make things any better. Even Thomas's well-meant thumbs-up and his knowing grin when he followed Eleanor out of the bedroom, bearing broom and mop, only served to increase Sherlock's jittery impatience.

 

He stood in front of the closed bedroom door for what seemed like an eternity, no longer able to stand waiting downstairs. He was wearing the suit Irene had bought for him when John had made his first deal with her regarding Sherlock. Sherlock owned better, nicer, and more expensive clothes by now, thanks to John, but this suit in particular best reflected his inner emotional landscape - which was in utter turmoil at the moment. Back then, he'd felt something like a bride waiting for her groom with nervous anticipation. Now, he felt like a bride just before the wedding night... including the deflowering and the subsequent display of the bloody sheets to the gathered company. Of course that was all completely idiotic, since the whole deflowering had taken place ages ago and sex didn't involve any unpleasant surprises for him any more (not after spending all this time with John). There was absolutely no reason to be excited. And yet... John always managed to surprise Sherlock, and not just when it came to sex. Maybe a little excitement was appropriate after all.

 

Sherlock placed the flat of his hand against the bedroom door, letting his entire body press against it. It was behind this door. A new bed. A new future. A new life. With John. The golden plug tickled inside him, and Sherlock unconsciously pushed his groin a little harder against the unyielding door... only to promptly recall the second promise he'd made to John. He hastily pulled away. A guilty conscience, shame, and arousal - which surged through him suddenly and without warning - made the blood shoot into his cheeks.

 

Tonight.

 

Tonight, John was going to take him on that bed, behind that door, and Sherlock was going to enjoy every second of it.

 

Tonight, Sherlock was finally going to come clean and tell John the truth about how he felt... tell him that he loved him... how _deep_ his feelings were... and how impossible a life without John would be for him.

 

Tonight, Sherlock would ask John to let him take on the active role... just this once, he wanted to see what it was like to sink into John, to give John pleasure in that manner, to feel John that way, to experience his warmth, to... love John like that.

 

Tonight, he would disclose everything. About himself. About Mycroft. About the conservatorship.

 

That would be the first step... the first step toward finally taking charge once again over his own life.

 

And then... following that confession... he would await John's judgment and hope for absolution.

 

Yes. That was what he was going to do.

 

He was going to reveal himself completely to John, entrust him with absolutely everything. Because only that confession would enable him to give himself completely to another person - to John - to present him with the gift of himself, in a way he'd never thought possible... that he'd never even considered for himself. He'd never thought that fate would hold someone like John Watson in store for him.

 

Sherlock leaned back against the bedroom door and closed his eyes. He wanted to be everything for John... his light... his darkness... his slave... his idol... his equal partner. But that would only be possible once there were no more secrets, no more lies, no more half-truths, and no more excuses between them. Only then would he truly be worthy of John's respect... his attentions... his affection (and perhaps, eventually... his love). Only when he was able to stand before him on equal footing - on equal terms … only then would his submission … his supremacy... be complete. Only then would it all make sense... would it form a complete picture. Only then would all of the conditions be fulfilled for him to truly enjoy life at John's side. Only then would he have the right to claim everything for himself that John already shared with him so willingly - at least, that was how Sherlock saw it.

 

John was the best thing that had ever happened to him. John... who could be so wonderfully demanding and cruel, and at the same time - in his own way - could read Sherlock's every wish in his eyes.

 

Without even really meaning to, he started thinking about Irene's remark... if John weren't interested in Sherlock beyond the amazing sex they had, he certainly never would have rebuilt half his house to create a home for the two of them. Because that's how Sherlock thought of it now. It wasn't just _'John's house'_ to him, a place where he was a guest of indefinite duration; it had become a _home_ for both of them. And for that reason, Sherlock was almost positive that John would greet his disclosure positively. Of course, there was always a small risk... but... John had said he missed him... No. There was no risk at all.

 

His plan was firm.

 

His decision was made.

 

He knew what he was going to do and say that night.

 

The only thing he wasn't sure about was what should come first.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Late that same afternoon, Sherlock was so tense despite all his optimism that it outweighed the doubts he still had regarding Mycroft. Even if Mycroft were moved to extricate Sherlock from John's sphere of influence, John wouldn't just stand by and let it happen. Sherlock was sure of that.

 

Anxiety, impatience and curiosity... the new bed, the new bedroom, the new situation...

 

It was all grating on Sherlock's nerves.

 

He needed to get out of the house.

 

He needed some fresh air.

 

He needed to order his thoughts one last time, set everything straight in his head so that he'd be prepared when John was back here with him. Also, he knew... if he stayed in the house even one second longer, he was going to disobey, tear open the door to the bedroom, and admire the bed that John had bought for them. He might even go so far as to roll around on the blue sheets and...

 

Sherlock practically ran through the entry hall and out the door without so much as a coat or scarf (neither of which he owned anyway).

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_It was the middle of the night when Mary and Sebastian arrived at the house they'd rented for the duration of their assignment. It was set apart a bit, in a quiet area, and was exactly what they'd needed for their plan. They'd accepted the rental agent's offer immediately. Now they'd completed their work within the allotted timeframe, to the full satisfaction of their employer. They would move on as quietly as possible in the next few days._

 

_As they walked up the narrow path through the front garden to the door of the house, Mary reached for Sebastian but he kept sidestepping her._

 

_"Stop it!" he finally barked at her._

 

_"I'm sorry," Mary hissed back. "How often do I have to say it?!"_

 

_"Best would be not at all! How could you forget your name again?"_

 

_Mary pursed her lips belligerently. "Because no one could remember such a stupid name," she said in her defence._

 

_Sebastian gaped at her, both stunned and furious. "Brown?! Brown is a stupid name?!" he cried. "Why don't you just admit you can never remember any of our cover names?"_

 

_"Nobody's perfect," Mary retorted, shrugging testily._

 

_"It doesn't have anything to do with perfection. You've driven us to the brink of catastrophe so many times with your miserable memory that I've lost count."_

 

_"Good," Mary said dryly. "I don't even know why you're so upset about it. Everything's always gone fine."_

 

_Sebastian snorted irritably and ran his tongue over his lips. "Only because you can handle a razor like nobody's business," he admitted grudgingly._

 

_Mary gave him a satisfied smile. "Admit it... you find it insanely hot."_

 

_"Rather..." he growled at her, slinging one arm around her waist. "Come here, you..."_

 

_Then they both heard it._

 

_Footsteps._

 

_In the house._

 

_One glance at each other was all they needed. Sebastian released her and Mary took a gun out of her handbag and slunk around to the back of the house, silent as a shadow._

 

_Sebastian drew his gun as well and opened the door to the house with his other hand. He could already see from the hallway that the light in the living room was on. The intruder must have lowered the blinds, as no light was visible from outside. Mary would have noticed otherwise. She was cleverer than Sebastian when it came to things like that, even if her memory left something to be desired._

 

_Sebastian heard the steps again. The sound was coming from the living room. A light gait, as if from a woman. Sebastian frowned and pushed open the door to the living room, his gun cocked._

 

_"Whoops!" said the slender figure and rose from the armchair he had apparently just sat down on. "You're back sooner than I expected."_

 

_A well-dressed man stood in front Sebastian; his age was difficult to ascertain but he was probably still this side of forty. He had black hair and dark eyes that glowed in a somewhat manic manner, yet were so mesmerising that Sebastian struggled to withstand the power of their attraction._

 

_"Who are you?" Sebastian asked coldly, taking the safety off his gun with an audible click._

 

_"An admirer of your work," the man replied smoothly._

 

_"A little more precise, if you would," Mary called out. She'd entered through the patio door without a sound and now pressed the barrel of her gun into the stranger's back._

 

_"My goodness!" the man exclaimed enthusiastically. "You really are good! Very, very good! And I'm not just saying that."_

 

_The stranger's continued refusal to react began to get on Sebastian's nerves._

 

_"Do you want to hire us?" he blurted out impatiently. "Or what the hell do you want from us?"_

 

_The man blinked in amusement. "Maybe I should have introduced myself. Jim Moriarty. But you can just call me 'Boss'. Mary Moran and Sebastian Moran..." Moriarty inserted a dramatic pause. "I've been watching your career for a while and I must say, I'm impressed. The disposal of the Ramirez twins? Who even still uses a garrotte these days? Masterful. General Orloff's liquidation? Castrated with a razor and left to bleed out. Brilliant. The attack on the Chief General Prosecutor, Farenze? At that distance... a record-making shot! Quite an accomplishment for a dishonourably discharged soldier and his sister, and yes, I actually would like to make use of your services, in a manner of speaking."_

 

_Mary and Sebastian exchanged a rapid look, and Moriarty gave a short laugh._

 

_"Don't worry... your secret's safe with me... I have absolutely no prejudices." He twitched his shoulders nonchalantly. "If you insist on sharing a bed even though you have more than enough rooms at your disposal, that's entirely your business."_

 

_Sebastian gave Mary a signal, upon which she lowered her gun and came out from behind Moriarty to stand next to her brother._

 

_"How..." Mary started to say._

 

_"How do I know all that?" Moriarty supplied the rest of her question in a bored tone of voice. "I have my ways. But enough about that. Let's talk business."_

 

_"All right," Mary said hesitantly and Sebastian nodded. "Let's talk business."_

 

_Moriarty grinned happily. "I knew you'd be interested. Mary, how fast are you with your fingers?"_

 

_"It depends on the weapon," Mary replied promptly. "With a machine gun, for example, I could..."_

 

_"No," Moriarty cut in with a hint of impatience. "On the typewriter."_

 

_"Oh," Mary said, confused. "I... I don't know."_

 

_"Oh well, it doesn't matter," Moriary remarked, although he seemed less enthusiastic. "There are courses you can take."_

 

_"I'm supposed to... become a secretary?" Mary queried, bewildered._

 

_"Exactly," Moriarty agreed. "Unfortunately, you'll need a new name and a new identity... but so that dear old Mary doesn't end up having her usual problems, I've stuck as close to the truth as possible. What do you think of Mary Morstan?"_

 

_"Might work," Sebastian commented dryly, earning himself a poisonous glare from his sister. "And what would my role be?" Sebastian asked._

 

_"Ooooh, I have something really special for you." Moriarty clapped his hands together eagerly. "The mob's recruiting in Edinburgh."_

 

_"Do I need a new name?" Sebastian inquired._

 

_Moriarty waved him off. "What for? The truth will sell itself better than fiction in this case. This is your chance to brag about past jobs. The mob will always find a place for a successful assassin like you."_

 

_Sebastian's eyes narrowed. "Sounds like a long-term kind of gig."_

 

_Moriarty confirmed the assumption with a casual twitch of his lips._

 

_"It'll cost you," Mary pointed out._

 

_Moriarty dismissed that objection as well with a flick of his wrist and named a sum that had both siblings widening their eyes._

 

_"Is that enough?" Moriarty asked in an offhand manner._

 

_"Yes, boss," Sebastian answered._

 

_A reptilian grin played at the corners of Moriarty's mouth. Then he stepped over to Mary, put one hand on the back of her neck and pulled her close for a deep, wet kiss, even as his other hand found its way between Sebastian's legs. He ended the kiss with an obscene smacking sound but didn't take his hands away yet._

 

_"Why don't we get a little more comfortable and discuss the details in your bedroom?"_

 

_"Okay, boss," Mary echoed her brother's words._

 

_She sent a calculating look in her new sponsor's direction from beneath lowered lashes and started unbuttoning her blouse. Her movements clearly said 'why not?'_

 

_After all, it wasn't the first time they'd celebrated a new business transaction or the successful completion of a contract with a client in this manner. They had gotten close to potential victims with this approach several times as well. But up to now, every single one of those people had been under the impression they were sharing a bed with a married couple. This time would be different, and maybe it was the fact that all of the parties involved were aware they were breaking a taboo which caused her brother to breathe more heavily than usual._

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

"I shouldn't..." Mycroft started to say but didn't get any further because Greg's tongue slipped between his lips. "...come here to your place..." Greg kept kissing him relentlessly, but Mycroft was stubborn too. "… so often."

 

Greg grinned and separated himself from Mycroft a bit.

 

"We agreed this is the only option. At least there's no nosy concierge here."

 

"You do realise we run the danger..." Mycroft started to point out before Greg's kisses interrupted him again. "… that a reporter will follow me at some point, and then..."

 

"...you'll think of something," Greg said lightly. "I have complete faith in you. And anyway..." he whispered, drawing the word out.

 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow suspiciously. "Anyway...?" he repeated with an ominous sense of foreboding.

 

"Anyway... no one's forcing you. You don't have to _come_ ," Greg answered with a salacious wink.

 

He was answered with a remarkably stern glare. "Gregory Lestrade... was that an attempt at sexual innuendo?"

 

"Hmm... my full name," Greg whispered. "I like when you do that."

 

"Greg... I shouldn't even be here, by all rights," Mycroft objected. "Are those curtains closed properly?"

 

"Yeah, sure," Greg murmured absently, nibbling at Mycroft's earlobe.

 

Mycroft pushed Greg away.

 

"Go check," he demanded. When Greg rolled his eyes and didn't make any move to comply with Mycroft's wish, Mycroft put on a blank expression, straightened his tie, and said, "Fine, I could also leave again."

 

Greg's shoulders telegraphed the moment of his capitulation loud and clear. "Yeah, all right. I'll go check."

 

After Greg had moved away from Mycroft in order to see to the curtains, Mycroft frowned. It was true, he really shouldn't be here. That wasn't just something he'd said. His next appointment was in half an hour. Some exhibition or other was opening, and he was supposed to be giving a speech - his personal assistant had written it for him this time, as it was an event of only minor importance. And thus - he really shouldn't be here. He'd had his chauffeur drop him off at home - purportedly to change his clothes - but he'd never actually set foot in his flat. Instead, he'd turned right back around and left the building again to get a taxi, which had dropped him off one street away from Greg's place, just like every other time. He'd walked the rest of the way, as usual. All that just so he could gaze into Greg's dark brown eyes for a few minutes before another taxi brought him back home, where he would get into the car the event organiser was sending to bring him to the exhibition.

 

It was actually rather mad, when he thought about it. Greg couldn't be allowed to discover the lengths to which Mycroft was going to simply in order to spend a bit of time with him. Admitting to a weakness like that would be unforgivable. There was no telling what might happen if Greg ever found out. He didn't doubt it would end up being used against him sooner or later. That was the way of the world. And yet... Mycroft still felt drawn to this policeman in a way that was strange and unfamiliar. He'd never felt this way about another person before in his life. It scared him. And that fear strengthened his resolve never to allow the depth of his feelings to become known. Sure - he'd more or less proposed marriage to Greg already... in the drizzling rain, with a pair of ducks as their only witnesses... but that didn't mean by a long shot that he had to expose himself or make himself vulnerable to attack... not even if he wanted to spend the rest of his life with Greg. Although there was nothing he'd rather do more.

 

Irritated and a little annoyed at himself, Mycroft shook his head at his own sentimentality. Under no circumstances could he afford to lose control. Mummy had never lost control over herself. And she had expected no less from him, from his earliest childhood onwards. That was the example she'd given, and the way she'd raised him. She had been... _pleased_ whenever he'd reined in his passions. He would have - and had - done anything for her approval... to elicit a pleased smile from her. He'd internalised her doctrine so thoroughly that it had become second nature for him. Control and restraint. That was his life. For decades now, it had been almost ridiculously easy for him to exert control and hold the reins over himself and everyone around him. Except for Sherlock... but Sherlock was a different case altogether. He was the last person Mycroft wanted to think of at the moment. Sherlock was an exception to every rule. But Greg... Greg should follow the rules and not the other way round.

 

It was a mystery why it was so incredibly simple for Greg to undermine Mycroft's entire way of life with a single glance. A mystery that put him increasingly on the defensive... which meant his desire - his _need_ \- for control became greater and greater and threatened to sprout shoots that were increasingly eccentric... such as his insistence on the curtains being closed, and double-checking that fact.

 

Just as Greg came back with an apologetic smile on his face, Mycroft's mobile phone rang. He accepted the call, to the sound of Greg's irked sigh.

 

"Yes? Ah... oh... now it's _Sergeij_ again all of a sudden?" Mycroft said with a touch of irony. "Well? Do you have anything? Really? Aha... a sandlot acquaintance, of a sort... wonderful," he noted in a sarcastic tone and without much enthusiasm. "Yes, if you must... send me the picture and the file." He ended the call without saying good-bye. Then he stared at the device and waited.

 

"Anything new about Donovan?" Greg asked, coming closer to get a look at the phone as well.

 

Mycroft let him. "Perhaps... my... erm... _man Friday_ has tracked someone down who recalled a childhood friend of Sally Donovan's. I'll have a file with information and a picture in a moment. I don't expect it to pan out to much, to be honest... Here we are - the photo."

 

Mycroft opened the attachment to the message, and both men stared at the black-and-white image of a young man, perhaps seventeen years of age. Slim, not very tall, with smooth black hair. Mycroft shrugged.

 

"This could be anyone," he declared, disappointed, before he noticed how quiet Greg had become beside him. "Greg?" he asked, surprised. "Do you know him?"

 

Greg chewed on his lower lip.

 

"I'm not sure... but those eyes... I could swear I've seen them somewhere before... That kind of manic expression... do you see it too?"

 

Mycroft nodded slowly. Yes - there was something uneasy, something unsettled in the boy's eyes.

 

"If only I knew..." Greg spoke his thoughts out loud, then let out a low cry. "That's him! That's the other guy!"

 

"Which other guy?" Mycroft asked, bewildered.

 

"The bomb! At the ball! That's the man who was there with that Moran fellow!" Greg exclaimed. "Do you have his name?"

 

"Yes," Mycroft replied, tapping rapidly at his phone. "Sergeij sent... Yes! Here!"

 

Greg bent over the screen so he could see the name. "Jim Moriarty," he read out.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Sherlock opened the gate with the code John had given him at some point way back when, and which he now dug out of the depths of his memory.

 

Then Sherlock left John's property. No one made a move to stop him.

 

He stopped after just a few steps. It slowly dawned on him that he was alone on the street for the first time since Irene had picked him up. Alone in the city. All alone in the open air.

 

It might have been frightening, but Sherlock felt the snap of the cold on his cheeks, and for the first time in his life, he felt truly free. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the fresh, cold air. Dark clouds hung over London. It smelled of snow. And car exhaust. It was all a bit much.

 

A blonde woman in a black coat with a fur collar was walking along the pavement. Sherlock didn't pay her any mind. His mind was entirely occupied with processing all of the sensory input... the joy... the complete absence of fear... the tension which drained out of him all at once... the sense of _freedom_ that suffused him... Why had he waited so long to take this step? Why hadn't he gone out much earlier and...

 

The blonde woman stopped right in front of him and addressed him: "Mr Sigerson... what a pleasant surprise," she said. Her smile remained cold and didn't reach her eyes.

 

"Who are you?" he asked, irritated by the interruption. His head was spinning. He couldn't possibly concentrate on interacting with a stranger at the moment.

 

"Mary Morstan," she answered with that same cold smile. "Does that mean anything to you? The mayor's PA?" When Sherlock shook his head mutely, wondering why his brother was sending his secretary after him and how Mycroft already knew he'd left the house, Mary Morstan took a gun out of the pocket of her coat. She flashed it at him quickly and tucked it back in. "You may know me better under my real name... Mary _Moran_."

 

An icy chill spread through Sherlock's body. "Moran," he repeated in a flat voice. His mouth felt numb.

 

Mary nodded with satisfaction. "Nice of you to spare me the trouble of having to lure you out of the house under false pretences, or drag you out by brute force." A dark sedan car drove slowly up the street and came to a stop directly next to them. "And now... if you ever want to see your Johnny alive again, you'll get into this car without making a scene."

 

Sherlock submitted to the inescapable with his typical sangfroid, opened the door of the car, and got inside.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_**To be continued...** _

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

This is what the bed might look like that John bought in Harwich. Only with a really stable top frame... ;)

 

(More beds? Click on the link!)

<http://lorelei-lee.tumblr.com/post/133858296569/and-another-teaser-for-the-next-chapter-of>

 

  

 

  

 

The pictures John was making fun of in the antique dealer's display window are these so-called 'bedroom paintings':

Only German Link available:

<https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Schlafzimmerbild>

No idea if they were as popular in the English-speaking world as they were in Germany... but here are a few examples anyway:

(More pics? Click on the link!!!)

<http://lorelei-lee.tumblr.com/post/133855530329/yes-that-is-a-teaser-for-the-next-chapter-of>

 

 

 


	45. Bringing Light to the Darkness - Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Big Showdown!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation by the amazing SwissMiss!

 

**Chapter 45: Bringing Light to the Darkness - Part 3**

 

 

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

The black limousine was being driven by a man with close-cropped hair. Beside him sat another man with a slimy, contemptuous grin.

 

Sherlock got into the back seat and - following a gesture from Mary - slid across behind the front passenger seat so that she could take the spot beside him.

 

"Go," she told the driver before turning to Sherlock. "If I might have your phone and any weapons?"

 

Sherlock hesitated. He'd actually hoped to have the opportunity to contact someone at some point. Mike maybe. His first choice would have been John, of course, but according to his kidnapper, John was in her clutches as well, so he was out.

 

" _Now_ , if you don't mind!" Mary ordered him sharply. "I don't have any problem with hurting you. Quite the opposite." She gave him an icy smile. "It would be extremely accommodating of you to give me an excuse."

 

Sherlock reluctantly handed over his phone. It didn't make any sense to expose himself to the possibility of injury or impairment already over such a trivial matter. He might be glad to have access to his full physical capabilities later on, and not to be handicapped by a broken finger or something along those lines.

 

"Gun? Maybe a knife?" she inquired curtly. Sherlock shook his head without speaking. "All right. But don't get any ideas. We'll search you later. Thoroughly."

 

Sherlock ignored her, hoping they wouldn't be thorough enough to find his butt plug, which exerted a very pointed reminder just then as he crossed his legs. He tried not to show any reaction, instead directing his gaze out the window of the moving vehicle.

 

The car's windows were tinted, and Sherlock's view of London as it passed by was hazy. Five minutes ago, his life had been fine. More than fine. It had been practically perfect. He had felt one last lingering ray of sunshine on his face, and the fresh air had caressed his skin. A liberating, almost child-like, utterly wonderful laugh had formed in his chest... ready to erupt... ready to be expressed. And then... he gave the woman beside him a good, long look.

 

"How did you know who I am?" he asked after a while. "Sebastian Moran never saw me."

 

"No," Mary conceded with a sneering, sidelong glance. "But you made a rather memorable entrance a few weeks ago when Doc Watson brought some of his borough heads home with him. Sebastian wasn't there himself, but he'd barely set foot in Albright's office the next day before Albright was telling him every little detail. He made special mention of your love bite."

 

Sherlock felt himself turning red at the memory of that unpleasant scene, and kicked himself for it. What had he been thinking?

 

Mary, on the other hand, displayed a cold-blooded, calculating attitude. "There were advantages to Sebastian being able to establish himself as Albright's right-hand man so quickly. Albright wouldn't have spread gossip like that to just anyone. He was too afraid of the Doc after all... even if it didn't stop him from taking his digs. It all turned out to be extremely convenient for us in the end."

 

Sherlock caught himself nodding. John had been fed up with Albright because of his constant derogatory remarks about Sherlock. When the disagreement escalated and Moran apparently saved John from Albright's ' _assassination attempt'_ , it had given Moran an even more influential position within the mob. The perfect position from which to throw spanners in John's plans and damage him while he himself flew under the radar and remained completely above reproach as John's saviour.

 

"That's how we knew what you looked like and what … _position_ you held within Doc Watson's household. And that the Doc had tolerated you for an unusually long time compared to your predecessors." She let her eyes slide over him. "We also knew that your _Johnny_ almost killed Albright when he dared to speak ill of you. That was interesting..." She bared her teeth. "The way we see it, you're the perfect bait to lure Doc Watson into our trap."

 

Sherlock's head whipped around. "You don't even have John?"

 

"No," she admitted with a cold smile.

 

"But you said you had John and if I ever wanted to see him alive again..."

 

"I didn't say anything of the sort. You drew your own conclusions from my words... and they were... wrong. I simply offered you the chance of seeing your Johnny again - and that was correct. You will see him alive again - if he finds the way to our rendezvous - which we assume he will, of course. But I don't think I'm giving anything away by telling you that your reunion won't last long."

 

That was a bitter pill for Sherlock to swallow. He'd let himself be tricked like a foolish schoolboy. His anxiety over John had rendered him unable to think clearly. How stupid could he be?! Shaken by his own idiocy, he stared silently out the side window. After a short while, however, he gave his kidnapper a searching look. It wouldn't do any good to fret over past mistakes. He needed all his intelligence, all his mental acuity, and all his focus now to get himself and John out of the snare which seemed to be relentlessly closing in on the two of them. And for that, he needed information. As much as possible. One never knew what might turn out to be useful. There was this woman's motive, for example... Why was she so insistent on...

 

"Sebastian wasn't your husband..." he said, speaking his thoughts out loud.

 

She looked at him, her lips pursed. "Oh?" was all she said.

 

"No... you're not wearing a wedding band."

 

A derisive laugh sounded. "That doesn't mean anything these days."

 

Sherlock tilted his head in acknowledgement. "Of course... but... you're definitely the type for romantic gestures. You're wearing black, despite the fact that he's been dead several days now. You're wearing a locket around your neck - probably containing a picture of the deceased. All sentimental nonsense." Sherlock tried hard not to think of John's handkerchief right then, which he'd been carrying around with him for days in his trouser pocket. "You introduced yourself as Mary Moran... you have the same last name as him. If you'd been married, you'd wear a wedding ring, for sentimental reasons. Therefore, he wasn't your husband, but he was a relative. A cousin or..." The curve of her nose, the blond hair... "Your brother."

 

Something flared up in Mary's eyes, but she nodded. "Yes," she confirmed. "He was my brother."

 

The extent of her grief struck Sherlock as unusual... especially when he thought of his own brother. He was about to say something along those lines, but he swallowed the words back down. It seemed John's opponents really didn't know about his own rather peculiar family situation. Sherlock would keep quiet on that score. It was entirely possible he'd be able to gain some advantage out of it later.

 

"Since your brother is now dead..." Sherlock continued his line of reasoning, "and _J.M._ can't stand for Sebastian _James_ Moran... there must be a real _J.M._ somewhere. The great unknown who's behind it all."

 

"You'll find out for yourself soon enough," she answered in a disparaging tone.

 

"You want revenge for your brother?" It was more a statement than a question.

 

"Oh yes," she replied with an ugly smile. "The boss was kind enough to do me the favour and change his plans accordingly."

 

"I'm to be killed then," Sherlock went on placidly - at least on the outside. He wasn't about to show any weakness in front of John's enemies. He wanted John to have reason to be proud of him. Inside he was laughing hysterically, however. On the very day when he'd thought his life might finally have taken a turn for the better... might finally be _starting_... it was going to end, permanently. Fate truly did hate him. But this time he wasn't going to take it sitting down. This time he wasn't going to give up. This time he had something worth fighting for.

 

"You really are a clever fellow." Her lips formed a moue of false coquetterie. "This is actually quite entertaining with you. Most of them are so unbearably stupid, and then there's all the howling and gnashing of teeth when they finally realise they're going to kick the bucket... They usually need it spelled out for them, letter by letter... but you got there all on your own," she mock praised him. "Hats off. Yes, you're going to die, and I hope and pray the boss will grant me that particular privilege. I presume you're familiar with the saying ' _an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth'_?"

 

"Familiar - yes. But it doesn't apply here. I'm more than a _brother_ to John... it would only make sense if..." Sherlock began absently, but then he paused. "Oh..." he said finally. "Moran wasn't just your _brother_..."

 

Mary's expression turned threatening but Sherlock didn't pay her any mind, instead continuing with his discourse.

 

"I wonder..." he said with a patronising smirk, "whether your brother really gave it to you good... or did you prefer your boss in the end after all?"

 

The resounding slap that landed on his cheek confirmed his suspicion.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

That afternoon, John returned home in high spirits. He'd already given Bridges the rest of the day off; Mike was in a taxi heading back home where he would be reunited with his Susan; Dave and Naresh - who had more than earned a break after the tension of recent days - were also on their way to their respective houses, and he... he was looking forward to Sherlock.

 

Bridges must have noticed his employer's impatience, as he'd covered the distance from Harwich to London - which usually took a good two hours - in record time. His driving style had made Mike alternately turn green and go pale, but he hadn't had any objections... or at least hadn't dared to voice them.

 

The diamond smuggling job had gone off without a hitch. The gemstones had already been distributed to trustworthy partners who would ensure that the hot goods were rendered untraceable and put on the market. The coffers would be full again soon. The coup had been worth it. His reputation within the mob would gleam with its former brilliance once more, and he would also be better off financially in no time.

 

But now came the best part: Sherlock. And his enthusiastic welcome. And the new bed.

 

John went into the entry hall and closed the door behind him, letting the lock catch with an audible snap. In just a moment, Sherlock would storm out from somewhere like a force of nature, virtually suffocating him in his embrace, and then...

 

Why was it so quiet?

 

Why wasn't Sherlock doing his clinging vine act and wrapping his arms and legs around him?

 

John blinked in bewilderment and looked around.

 

No doubt about it.

 

No Sherlock anywhere in sight.

 

Strange...

 

"Sherlock?!" he called out loud and clear. "I'm back..."

 

"Mr Watson!" came an excited cry from the door that led to the service tract. It was Thomas, who approached John with a troubled expression.

 

"It's a good thing you're back. I was just about to call you. Sherlock... Mr Sigerson... he went for a walk about an hour ago and hasn't returned... and we... we're starting to worry." Even as John tried to understand whatever it was that Thomas was telling him, the other man took a deep breath and went on quickly: "He's never left the house before, and now he's been gone so long and didn't say anything to anyone and I..."

 

"Sherlock is gone?!" John blurted out, disconcerted. He was about to say something else but just then his mobile phone rang. Without even looking at the screen, he accepted the call and bellowed, "NOT NOW!" into the device.

 

"Oh... you've noticed your snuggle-puss is gone then," a voice trilled on the other end of the line, and John froze.

 

The world seemed to stop with a jerk; time stopped breathing. And then everything started up again.

 

Why? Why did everything look the same as before? Why did everything smell the same as before? Feel the same as before? When nothing was the same at all? _Sherlock_...  _My God, Sherlock_... John felt himself shaking. His eye fell on Thomas, who was watching him fearfully yet not giving any sign of leaving. Thomas' presence forced him to get himself under control again, not to let anything show.

 

"Where is Sherlock?" John asked, emphasising each and every syllable with cold precision.

 

"Oh, I should introduce myself first, shouldn't I?" the man on the other end went on. "Of course I should, where are my manners... Moriarty, Jim Moriarty. At your service," he added with a titter that was - in John's opinion - entirely out of place.

 

"Where is Sherlock?" John repeated, ice in his tone. He was in no mood for games.

 

"Aw... now I'm a teensy bit disappointed... Jim! Jim Moriarty! Doesn't ring a bell at all? Admittedly, I did try hard to stay out of sight, but..."

 

All of a sudden John realised where he knew the voice from. The answering machine... _'Hi, this is Jim...'_ The envelope that had been found in Bayswater Road so long ago... with _J.M._ as the return address.

 

The culprit wasn't Sebastian James Moran... God, how could he have been so stupid!

 

"Oh, I see... your lack of response tells me you've just put two and two together." Moriarty sounded pleased. "Good, that puts an end to the tedious introductions. Can we move on to the heart of the matter now?"

 

John tried unsuccessfully to moisten his dry lips with his raw tongue.

 

"What do you want?" he asked in a stiff voice that didn't betray his dismay.

 

"You'll find out soon enough," Moriarty said with inappropriate cheer. "Come to Finsbury Park. Use the side entrance at Hornsey Wood Tavern Gate and go straight on. You'll know when you're at the right place. Oh - and please do come alone. I can't emphasise that enough. I'd have to eliminate any uninvited guests and there's nothing I hate more than spilling blood unnecessarily. And if you're thinking of calling your bodyguards... Dave - who's just going in the door of his house in Notting Hill - or Naresh - who's driving north in his red Lexus - or Fred and Ginger - who..."

 

John closed his eyes and saw one door after another slamming shut in his mind's eye... one exit after another being blocked...

 

"Understood," he cut Moriarty off brusquely.

 

Suddenly, there were muffled sounds in the background and John pressed his phone against his ear until it hurt. He hardly dared to breathe. Was it possible? Could that be Sherlock? And then he heard a cry of pain and a loud expletive, followed by Sherlock's voice.

 

"Don't do it, John! Stay..."

 

A dull sound like a blow, a gurgling noise and a tense male voice: "The wanker bit me!"

 

And then Moriarty's voice returned, not sounding the least bit amused.

 

"Your lap dog is behaving atrociously. Maybe castrating it would calm it down. As luck would have it, I have an expert right here on hand. She's simply mad about knives, handles them with astounding flair. If you want him back safe and sound - and in one piece... then you'd better hurry and come to our meeting alone." The call cut off and the line went dead.

 

Outside the windows, the sun was going down and the light faded slowly but surely from the hall.

 

**oooOOOOooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

It was quiet in the warehouse beside the Thames when Moriarty ended his call with Doc Watson. Hidden behind piled-up boxes and crates, Moriarty stood beside an industrial spotlight, its glaring beam directed at the blonde woman and three men who were throwing punches at another, dark-haired man.

 

"What..." Moriarty shrieked in a piercing voice at the three men, who had their hands full getting Sherlock under control, "… is so hard about making this doggy see reason?!"

 

"He was quiet as a lamb the whole time... and then all of a sudden..." one of the men murmured in a low voice.

 

"Boss, with all due respect..." another one remarked when they'd finally wrestled Sherlock to the ground. "This is no doggy. This is a grown lion."

 

"Wroooong," Moriarty sang. "Lions aren't dogs. Lions are members of the Felidae family." When he was met with nothing but uncomprehending looks, he waved his hand in disgust. "Whatever. Tie his arms behind his back and keep him still. Especially his legs. I'll take care of him myself... let's see what else he's got with him aside from his phone." Moriarty handed Sherlock's phone back to Mary - the same phone he'd just used to place the call to John Watson. He stepped in front of Sherlock and stared down at him. "Quite sporting of you to have called your Johnny so often. So many entries on your call log... must be true blue doodle-dee-do love," he taunted.

 

His prisoner gave him a scorching glare but remained stubbornly silent.

 

"All the better for me." Moriarty nodded to his henchmen. "Unbutton his shirt and take his trousers off. I want to know if there's anything interesting to see under there. And go through his pockets while you're at it. I don't want any nasty surprises later." He watched the proceedings for a while. "Shoes first," he snapped at his men. "For heaven's sake, I'm surrounded by eejits! And a little faster if it's not too much trouble. The Doc has a bit more of a trek to the rendezvous point than we do, but I don't want to be late for our date." His gaze swept over Sherlock's half-naked body. "Oh ho..." he whistled softly between his teeth. "What have we here? Oookay..." he drawled. "We're going to take a little detour on our way to the park. I need to pick something up from my flat."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

John stared into space as if bereft of all sensation.

 

"Was … was he kidnapped?" Thomas asked, his voice trembling. "If there's... anything I..."

 

"Go into the kitchen, Thomas. Don't let Eleanor and Mrs Turner out of your sight, and don't open the door to anyone," John ordered in a voice that seemed to come from very far away. Thomas nodded soberly. "Is anyone else in the house?"

 

"No. The gardener wasn't here today and Jacques won't be back until tomorrow."

 

"Good."

 

"What... what are you going to do?" Thomas asked with unusual hesitance.

 

"Thomas..."

 

"Yes?"

 

"Go to the kitchen," John repeated gently. Thomas nodded, cowed, and trundled off.

 

Once he was by himself again, John's gaze became dull and empty. The entry hall was dark and deserted, and he was all alone. No sound penetrated the space around him. The only thing he could hear was his own breathing. Stuttering. Pained. Gasping for control.

 

"Sherlock... fuck..." John whispered to himself.

 

For the first time in his life, he didn't know what to do.

 

Sherlock was in danger, and he had no way to get him back out... the net that had descended on them unseen was too tightly woven. There was no way... other than to do what had been demanded and go there all on his own.

 

He took a deep, focused breath through his nose.

 

Alone. Without any backup. Without any bodyguards. Without Mike.

 

His lips pressed together into a thin, resolute line, and a cold, hard gleam appeared in his eyes.

 

He was going to do it. He was going to go alone. He was no coward. And this Moriarty was going to see that for himself. He was prepared to do anything humanly possible in order to be able to put his arms around Sherlock again. It was all his - John's - fault that he was in this situation in the first place... the sick bastard had chosen Sherlock as a pressure point in order to drive John into a corner. John was going to make him pay for that. He didn't know yet precisely how, but he'd think of something.

 

Then he got an idea. Maybe there was still something he could do. He poked somewhat hectically at his phone to pull up the call log. But Sherlock was listed as the last caller.

 

A sigh of disappointment escaped him. Of course. Moriarty had taken Sherlock's phone and used it to contact him. How else could he have found out the number - after all, it was only known to a few select people.

 

He automatically started going through the names of the people in his mind who could reach him on this phone. Mike, his bodyguards, Mycroft Holmes... and before he could really think about what he was doing, he entered the number.

 

"Ah, Mr Watson," Mycroft said in greeting. "I was just about to..."

 

"Sherlock's been kidnapped," John cut him off brusquely. The sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line filled him with a certain grim satisfaction.

 

"By whom?" Mycroft asked briefly.

 

"Jim Moriarty … There were clues, earlier... signs... that we all overlooked. Moriarty's the man who's been making my life difficult for months now. He's probably also the one behind Donovan, just like he was the man behind Moran."

 

"Oh God..." Mycroft croaked, making John's ears perk up.

 

"Damn it, Mycroft!" he roared, furious. "What do you know?!"

 

"Just now... I received a message... Jim Moriarty and Sally Donovan truly do know each other... from when they were children... and Greg - Inspector Lestrade - has identified this Moriarty fellow as the second bomber at the police ball."

 

"Lestrade is with you?" John inquired.

 

The answer came haltingly. "Yes... he... it was purely by chance..."

 

"Mycroft - I don't give a flying fuck at the moment who you're punching doughnuts with. I just want to know one thing: can that bloody copper be trusted?"

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

"Do you have your car here?" Mycroft asked, almost rudely, as soon as he'd ended his call with John Watson.

 

"Right down at the corner, why?" Greg answered in alarm, unable to make heads nor tails of Mycroft's monosyllabic replies and remarks during his call.

 

"Put on a warm jacket. We're going out," Mycroft said firmly.

 

"What? Where?"

 

"Finsbury Park. And take something you can use as a weapon."

 

"Excuse me?!"

 

"Gregory. Now! We don't have all night," Mycroft urged him. "Apropos... what time is it?" He checked his watch and groaned. "The exhibition... Greg! Aren't you ready yet?"

 

"I'm not leaving here until I know exactly what's going on!" Greg snapped at Mycroft, crossing his arms over his chest in order to emphasise his words.

 

Mycroft stared at him. Greg didn't budge.

 

"Greg - you can be as difficult as you want again starting tomorrow, but not now. I'll explain everything in the car."

 

Greg sighed.

 

"All right, fine." He reached for his jacket. "Are we going to the exhibition now or what?"

 

"No!" Mycroft had already entered a number on his phone and held it to his ear. "I have to cancel my appearance. I just need to quickly let Miss Morstan know. She'll have to serve up some excuse or other to the organisers." He listened, then swore softly. "Why doesn't the woman answer her phone?!"

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

John set off in his car directly after his call to Mycroft. When he arrived at his destination, John left the car in a side street, crossed the Seven Sisters Road, and stopped in front of the side entrance to Finsbury Park. The picket fence wouldn't have posed any obstacle to him, but he checked whether the gate was open anyway. It turned out it swung open easily after he gave it a light push. His tongue ran across his cold, dry lips in a vain attempt to moisten them.

 

Then he took a step onto the slightly uphill path that stretched out before him into the night, away from the lighted street. But no sooner had he reached the asphalt lane that ran around the perimeter of the park than he saw a flickering red light close to the ground a few yards ahead. Three figures coalesced out of the darkness, illuminated by the red shimmer at their feet. John left the path and took a few steps closer, realising with a vague sense of dread that the red light was a votive candle set in the grass along the shorter side of a large field. The field was bordered by several evergreen bushes and naked trees on the left, and seemed to extend into infinity on the right.

 

John thought he could make out the McKenzie Pavilion in the background, but he wasn't sure. He only had a vague sense of his surroundings, as it had been decades since he'd spent a summer in this park. It had been bright daylight back then, and he'd been busy pushing drugs to uni students.

 

With every step he took, John tried to see whether one of the figures might be Moriarty - or even Sherlock. But the thin, dim light that the candle gave off was insufficient for recognising faces. All three of them were wrapped in thick coats and jackets - just like John - which camouflaged their shapes, making it even harder to identify them - whether intentional or not.

 

It was bitter cold that night, and John wasn't the only one with white clouds forming in front of his face, clouds that dissolved like smoke in the darkness - the other three figures' breath condensed in the air as well.

 

The frosted grass crackled beneath his feet with every step.

 

When John was just a few steps away from the three men, he was finally able to get a better look at their faces. They seemed vaguely familiar, which was a rather unpleasant discovery. It meant that the treason within his organisation had progressed even further than he'd suspected. But he didn't know exactly who they were until he was standing directly in front of them. They were part of a group of men he'd seen lurking in Albright's front office a few times.

 

John ground his teeth. It looked like Moran and Moriarty had been able to spread like a cancerous growth, silent and deadly, turning his own people against him.

 

"I'm here," John said curtly when he'd reached the three men. "What now?"

 

"The boss is waiting for you," one of the men said, and another snickered maliciously.

 

"Oh really?" John retorted, looking demonstratively around him. "Shy sort, is he? Or why don't I see him?"

 

"This way, Doc," said the third man, who had remained silent up to now. "The parlour's right through here!" He blurted out a short, ugly laugh, bent over, and pushed aside a wooden board that lay on the ground, and which John hadn't noticed.

 

John's heart leapt into his throat when a narrow, square hatch appeared under the board, opening like a yawning, black abyss before him. As if responding to an invisible command, a weak beam of light suddenly appeared on the surface from somewhere below the hatch, and a vertical shaft became visible, with metal rungs fixed into the sides to serve as a ladder. Light footsteps could be heard for a brief moment, but then all was silent again. John leaned over and saw that the shaft descended approximately four or five yards down into the earth. At the bottom, he could make out a cement floor, but beyond that he couldn't see anything. There was barely a sound to be heard either. There was no telling what might be waiting for him down there... lurking...

 

For the first time, he began to have doubts as to whether this had really been such a good idea to serve himself up to Moriarty like this. And for the first time, he began to have doubts as to whether Sherlock was even down there. Would Moriarty have brought him along? Or had John simply assumed that Sherlock would be at their meeting? He was torn for a moment. Should he just do what he'd been told and climb down into that hole? (Which looked more like a trap than anything he'd ever seen before!) Or should he refuse and in doing so... put Sherlock's life on the line? God - no! Anything but that! If he turned on his heel and left right now, it would mean a death sentence for Sherlock - John was certain of that. He'd never have another second of peace in this life with that on his conscience. He had no choice.

 

John closed his eyes for a moment, sending up a brief prayer to the heavens that Sherlock was really down there waiting for him, and that Moriarty would keep his word. Then he knelt down at the edge of the hole and began the descent. He hadn't gone more than a yard or two before he heard a noise above him. When he lifted his head, the board was being slid back across the opening.

 

Locked in. A cold, hollow feeling spread through his gut.

 

He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek and continued the descent until his feet couldn't feel any more metal rungs beneath them, instead hitting the smooth, hard ground. In a single, fluid motion, John let go of the ice-cold rungs (he'd never been so glad for his leather gloves before), took his gun out of the inside pocket of his jacket and turned around.

 

He found himself in a small room, the brick walls of which he might just barely have been able to touch if he'd stretched out both arms. There was an open passageway in the wall in front of him, where a petroleum lamp stood. John identified it as the light source whose dull glow had shone up the entry shaft to the outside. Here, it additionally illuminated the staircase that opened off the other side of the passageway, leading steeply even further downwards.

 

Frustration arose in him as he realised he still hadn't reached his goal, but then he heard weirdly distorted sounds floating up the staircase. Were those steps? Whispers? It was hard to say.

 

He started down the stairs, remaining alert. The passageway became wider and wider, finally ending in a spacious landing where yet another lamp stood, its warm light struggling valiantly against the darkness.

 

John stopped where he was. A space opened up in front of him. It seemed enormous.

 

Without meaning to, he opened his mouth in both awe and silent horror.

 

Brick after brick... formed into oval archways and massive, stocky pillars that rose up out of low walls, extending yard after yard in surreal symmetry until they were swallowed up in impenetrable blackness.

 

Several petroleum lamps distributed along the tops of the walls cast their soft light on the reddish surfaces, arches and pillars, creating bizarre shadows and reflecting in the murky water that had gathered in the arrow-straight aisles between the walls, like canals.

 

Everything in the gallery was either round or oval, aside from those canals. Even the low, broad walls echoed the curvature, becoming so wide at their base that they led into the water with a gentle sweep, creating an effect more like a shallow-banked tarn than an artificial reservoir.

 

There were just a few more steps between him and the final landing, which barely rose above the surface of the water.

 

John continued down the stairs, feeling slightly light-headed, until he'd reached the bottom landing.

 

The air was stuffy and stale. It smelled like soil and bricks, mould and neglect.

 

Although he tried not to, he was getting nervous. To the left and right of him was nothing but water. Where was Moriarty? And more importantly: where was Sherlock?

 

Why hadn't he taken him with him to Harwich? Then none of this would have happened... He should have dragged him out of the house by his hair and stuffed him into the boot with brute force...

 

Why was no one here? Why wasn't anyone waiting for him? He'd definitely heard something before... hadn't he? Where was the source of those sounds now? Disquiet spread through him and he wrapped both hands around his weapon. Spread his legs a bit more. Set himself up in a good position to shoot. His eyes twitched first to the left, then the right.

 

There it was again - the sensation of fighting smoke... the feeling of an unknown threat that had been dogging him for weeks now. The impression that he was wading through a treacherous swamp where every step might be his last.

 

There! A sound! Distorted by the reverberation of the echo. Footsteps! Weren't they? John wasn't sure. He couldn't even say for certain which direction the sounds were coming from.

 

Why didn't Sherlock make a sound? Why couldn't he hear anything from that bloody sod? He couldn't keep his mouth shut otherwise... why didn't he bite someone again? Why didn't he call out his name?

 

The uncertainty grated on John's nerves, and the sheer mass of the walls surrounding him and the vaulted ceiling overhead pressed down on him. The entire weight of all those tonnes of bricks seemed to rest on his shoulders alone. The noises had stopped again. Now and then, the hall was filled with the gentle report of dripping water. But aside from that an oppressive silence reigned, as if in a crypt or a cathedral... a cathedral of horrors.

 

Nothing but row after row of those endless pillars and weird oval arches, like empty eye sockets staring into the void. If he stood at just the right - or perhaps the wrong - angle, the pillars lined up in a self-repeating row, creating the disturbing impression of a hall of mirrors. John almost expected to find himself face-to-face with an image of himself any second now, but instead Moriarty suddenly stood before him.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

"I hope you're at least getting your jollies off this!" Greg swore heartily as he snuck as quietly as possible through the bushes in Finsbury Park along with Mycroft.

 

They'd taken a different way in than John Watson had been directed to by Moriarty, seeking a spot that was more or less protected from curious onlookers in order to climb over the fence that separated the park from the rest of the city. Since the park was closed after sunset, they hadn't had any other choice in order to gain entrance to the grounds. Now they moved cautiously toward the McKenzie Pavilion, which was near the rendezvous point the mob boss was heading for.

 

"At the risk of disappointing you... Slinking around in parks with you at night is not precisely high on my wish list for erotic escapades," Mycroft replied condescendingly.

 

"Not that!" Greg hissed. "I mean leading me astray into illegal activities!"

 

"Ah..." said Mycroft, adding after several moments: "Surprisingly not."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

After John had gone down through the hatch into the water reservoir, one of Moriarty's men pulled the hood of his parka up over his head.

 

"Fucking cold," he murmured darkly.

 

"The Doc had a piece," another man with short hair noted.

 

"Yeah, I saw," the man in the parka agreed. "We should have searched him."

 

"The boss didn't want us to, Franco," the third man interjected. He was wearing a short coat with a fake fur collar. "You heard him."

 

"Still, Jack," said Franco. An icy wind came up, and he held onto his hood. "Letting the Doc keep a gun's not even overconfidence anymore, it's nothing short of suicide."

 

The short-haired man grinned. "The boss's got some pretty solid insurance with that pansy of Doc's. I don't think the Doc's going to try anything crooked."

 

"Let's hope for the best, Cooper," Franco growled.

 

Cooper shoved a cigarette between his lips and lit it. "It's Doc's own fault. He shouldn't've brought that fairy into his house."

 

Franco shifted from one leg to the other. "Didn't use to bother you," he said. "Doc's bent himself."

 

"Cooper's right," Jack tossed out. "I'm all right with a poofter for a boss. But that Sigerson was too much..." He shook his head in disgust, rubbing the backs of his hands. "Wanker bit me too. Hope I didn't catch anything from him. Who knows what diseases and shit they've got."

 

"What're you yammering about all of a sudden?" Franco asked. "Sigerson's not the first floozy he had with him."

 

" _Under_ him's more like it." Cooper laughed. "True enough... but that Sigerson's the first one that stuck his nose in things he had no business with."

 

Jack grunted his agreement. "That fancy bastard didn't miss a trick. Couldn't even palm a single gram of coke anymore. Not a one... not a chance."

 

Cooper ground his cigarette out under his heel. "And here I wanted to take my girl for a holiday in the Caribbean... can forget it now without the side lines. Moran was something else. He could've pulled the cart out of the ditch Doc drove it into."

 

Jack sniffed loudly. "Lucky thing Moran introduced us to the boss. This way we're the first ones who..."

 

"Can lick his arse?" Franco asked with a sneer.

 

"You're the arse!" Jack hissed. "You're here too, trying to make nice for the new boss."

 

"Man, no sense of humour," Franco said. "Okay - what do you say? I don't quite fancy standing here any longer freezing my gear off."

 

"The boss said we should wait here," Cooper countered.

 

Franco shrugged. "There's some bushes back there. It's probably not so bloody cold and windy as it is here. I'm going over there anyway. You do what you want."

 

Cooper and Jack watched their companion stalk over on stiff legs to a little group of trees surrounded by a green hedgerow.

 

"Let's go," Jack proposed. "I've already got icicles on me nads. We can see the hole just as good from over there."

 

"Fine by me," Cooper grumbled.

 

"If anyone crawls out of there who's not supposed to, it'd be no problem picking him off in this open space anyway." Jack laughed. "A clean shot between the shoulder blades. That's the way it's done."

 

They joined Franco, who was taking a sip from a flat metal flask in the cover of the bushes.

 

"Want one? 'S good against the cold." He held the flask out to Jack.

 

Jack took a drink and gasped for air. "Holy shit, what is that?"

 

"Rum," Franco said innocently.

 

"Softy," Cooper growled, took the container from Jack and swallowed a mouthful without batting an eyelash.

 

Franco grinned and Jack shook his head.

 

"I'm going to have a slash," Franco declared and stepped away from his cronies.

 

"Make sure you don't piss ice cubes!" Jack called after him, laughing crudely.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

"Those three men are standing over there now, do you see them?" Greg whispered to Mycroft.

 

They'd been hiding in the shelter of the McKenzie Pavilion for a while now, and had been able to observe John arrive, only to promptly be swallowed up by the earth. They'd then seen the three men leave the field for the protection of the hedges.

 

"I'm not blind, Gregory."

 

"Do you actually know what's down there?" Greg asked, indicating the field in front of them.

 

"Yes."

 

"Well? Don't make me drag every word out of you!" Greg hissed in a low voice.

 

"The former Hornsey Wood Reservoir is located underneath this section of the park. One of the decommissioned reservoirs providing drinking water to the City of London."

 

Greg fell silent.

 

"Don't suppose there's another way in?" he asked finally.

 

"No other way in," Mycroft confirmed. "At least not that I know of."

 

Greg fell silent again, staring at Mycroft in the darkness with both disbelief and annoyance. "All right, that's it," he snapped. "I'm calling the police."

 

"You _are_ the police."

 

"No, I'm just the _Special Commissioner of_... something," Greg blustered in an undertone. "God... I can't even remember my own title! Something horribly nondescript anyway that's got nothing at all to do with the police and that I wish I'd never let myself in for!"

 

"Gregory... if we call the police now, there's sure to be a bloodbath down there in the reservoir. Is that what you want?" Mycroft waited a moment before adding, "Not that I wouldn't be happy to rid myself of my brother in such a manner..."

 

"Bullshit," Greg cursed softly. "You're not going to all this trouble for Doc Watson. Your brother means something to you... no matter what you say. You worry about him."

 

"Constantly," Mycroft affirmed with a tortured sigh. "Although I have to say he also _constantly_ does insist on making trouble for me wherever he can."

 

"All right, fine - no police," Greg capitulated. "At least not yet!" he added in a warning tone. "So what do we do now?"

 

"We take care of those three hulking henchmen," Mycroft said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

 

"We do what now?!"

 

"You brought along that rather large torch..."

 

"Yeah, my Maglite. What am I supposed to do with it? Light the way to the nick?"

 

"One of the heavies is separating himself from the group. Taking care of a sheep that's wandered off from its herd should be child's play for someone like you. And then you can lure another one of them away and..."

 

"You're taking care of the luring," Greg growled. Then he sighed heavily and slipped away from the Pavilion - ready to knock out the stranger with his oversized torch.

 

"The things I do for you..." he murmured to himself.

 

It all ended up being less fuss than they'd thought. The two men who were still huddled together lit a couple of cigarettes, making them easy to spot in the darkness.

 

The rustling sound that the first man made when he fell down, unconscious, brought one of the others out toward Greg. The torch was employed successfully there as well.

 

Mycroft knocked the last man off his feet with the help of the handle of his umbrella. When he lay senseless on the ground too, Greg put his torch away.

 

"But now I'm calling the police!" Greg barked at Mycroft.

 

"Not yet," Mycroft said firmly, letting his gaze slide over the man at his feet. "We should tie these gentlemen up..."

 

Greg raised an eyebrow and extracted several cable ties from his parka.

 

"No handcuffs?" Mycroft drawled. "Gregory, I must say I'm disappointed."

 

"Don't be," Greg retorted dryly. "The handcuffs are right where they belong. Ready for use. In my bedside drawer."

 

Mycroft tilted his head slightly to one side and pursed his lips. "You don't say."

 

"First of all, I had no idea what we were walking into," Greg replied as he started binding together the hands and feet of the man in front of them with the cable ties, not making any particular effort to be gentle. It would be virtually impossible for the man to free himself. Greg knew what he was doing. "Second, I don't exactly have six pairs of handcuffs lying around at home. Third..." He hesitated. "If you're not going to let me call the police at all then... it's better to use cable ties than handcuffs. It wouldn't be very bright of me if I had to requisition new handcuffs. Even the dullest copper would put two and two together."

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Moriarty, who had emerged from one of those pillared passages as if materialising out of nowhere, now stood on top of one of the low walls.

 

Several years lay between the photograph John had received from Mycroft and the man who now stood before him in the flesh, but there was no doubt it was the same person. That flickering look in his eyes - not just a trick of the petroleum lamps - would stay with him for the rest of his life.

 

All of a sudden, a calmness settled over John. He'd reached his goal. He was no longer trying to fight smoke and the torment of uncertainty. Now the threat had become corporeal, visible, and... vulnerable, with a name and a face.

 

He inhaled and aimed at Moriarty's chest.

 

But then Moriarty pulled Sherlock out from behind one of the pillars, holding a pistol to his temple. John flinched back in shock. He hastily lessened the pressure of his finger against the trigger of his gun. However, he still kept the weapon trained on Moriarty, whose footsteps rang through the high, dismal gallery as he walked along the top of the low wall, dragging Sherlock with him.

 

Sherlock, who stood upright beside his adversary, towering over him by a good handspan.

 

John's breath caught, only to fall back into a regular rhythm with a sigh of relief.

 

Sherlock was here. Sherlock was alive. Sherlock was unharmed.

 

His eyes flew over Sherlock's body, trying to take in every detail in an attempt to see if he were injured after all. Sherlock was tied up and gagged, which solved the mystery of why he hadn't drawn attention to himself earlier. It simply hadn't been possible for him to call out to John or warn him in any other way. At any other time, John would have said Sherlock's bonds were an excellent example of bondage play. Now, they just made him sick. Sherlock's arms were tied behind his back, and it looked as if his lower arms were completely bound together. Another piece of rope was wrapped around his thighs so that he was only able to hobble along, making it additionally impossible for him to ram either of his knees into certain opposing body parts.

 

A very faint smile of pride twitched at the corners of John's mouth. Sherlock probably hadn't been a very accommodating hostage for his abductors. A piece of cloth served as a gag, probably a simple handkerchief. It was pulled taut - excessively so, in John's opinion - between his lips and teeth, and was probably tied at the back of his neck.

 

The entire image Sherlock presented was not simply the result of practical considerations - no one knew better than John how important it was to keep prisoners secure; it was likely also meant to humiliate the captive. But despite the fact that all of the evidence was against it and it shouldn't have been possible, Sherlock exuded a calm, quiet dignity that made him appear virtually inviolable. He blinked at John once in silent acknowledgement.

 

That one look, that one blink, told John more than words ever could. Sherlock was fine. John needn't worry about him anymore. Now he could direct all of his attention to Moriarty again.

 

He kept his weapon aimed at Moriarty's chest, his hand steady, his eyes firmly on his adversary.

 

"I wouldn't if I were you," a female voice said from John's left.

 

John exhaled in surprise but didn't turn, instead keeping his focus on Moriarty. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a blonde woman aiming a pistol at him. She'd come out of nowhere. Silently... like a panther... like a cobra. Ready to kill. John knew a killer when he saw one - and this woman definitely belonged in that category.

 

Naturally, he was now expected to lower his gun. Well, they could wait until they were blue in the face. He kept his aim on Moriarty, not to be distracted.

 

"Pretty here, isn't it?" Moriarty remarked casually after a while, as if he were at a garden party. "An old drinking water reservoir from the Victorian era. It's not in use anymore... in danger of collapse. A shame. How do you like it, Doc?"

 

"Tad melodramatic," John replied, unruffled.

 

A reptilian grin distended Moriarty's lips. "I've developed a special affinity for water and fire, when it comes to certain... enterprises. Although I'd hoped the water here would be a bit deeper."

 

"The bombs. Dimmock. The police ball," John enumerated. "Fire."

 

Moriarty nodded, flattered. "Don't forget the bomb at the ball was concealed in a sculpture made of frozen water. And Dimmock... it was a crying shame his car didn't fall into the Thames or at least ram a fountain. That would have made it perfect."

 

"What do you want?"

 

An aggravated sigh sounded. "Everyone wants to get straight down to business," Moriarty complained. "No one appreciates the fine art of conversation anymore or places any value on a cultivated dialogue. All right. Fine. What do I want? I want to take over your organisation."

 

John blinked. "That's... all?"

 

"Yes, what else would there be?" Moriarty retorted.

 

"And all this trouble... for that? I mean... you could have just... set yourself up in business as a competitor. Kicked me out. Or simply had me killed."

 

Moriarty yawned demonstratively. "Booooring. And time-consuming. And soooo dull. Sure - I could have had you shot and taken your place. But there are several reasons why that simply wouldn't have been a good idea. First: regicides don't live long and usually aren't accorded much loyalty by their new subjects. That might work with stupid schoolboys... but later... later it's not effective anymore." He shook his head regretfully. "And so... I had to go about it in a different way. It's always better if the king abdicates... or is eliminated by his own people. Then his successor is usually celebrated as a messiah. You know - the king is dead, long live the king."

 

"Moran," John interjected. "Moran was supposed to be my successor."

 

"Precisely. Moran," Moriarty repeated, pleased. "Sebastian Moran was supposed to work his way up through the hierarchy. It was no problem with my help, and didn't take long. In the meantime, we could work on weakening your position in secret, sowing discord and discontent amongst your underlings. So..."

 

John chewed on his lower lip, his expression grim. "Roehampton." He practically spat the word out. "The home-cooked drugs."

 

Moriarty looked abashed. "I needed money. To finance everything... Sebastian... Mary..." He nodded at the blonde woman. "All of that didn't come cheap."

 

"All the problems in Bayswater Road... and Soho... the fake invoices," John went on as a cold rage welled up in him. Rage at Moran, at Moriarty, and at himself. "Was Max Graves one of your people?"

 

"He wasn't exactly opposed," Moriarty conceded. "He calculated he had … better chances with me. But I see... there must have been clues... you wouldn't have been able to list everything so quickly otherwise."

 

"An envelope with your initials... a telephone number... a message on an answering machine... that's all."

 

"You're... not quite as stupid as I thought," Moriarty drawled.

 

It was hollow praise, as John was well aware he never would have drawn certain conclusions without Sherlock's and Mike's help.

 

"And what about your little childhood friend, Donovan?" John remarked acidly.

 

Moriarty appeared to be stunned for a moment. "Oh... someone was thorough... very thorough. Not quite your style, is it?" he concluded derisively.

 

John bit down on his lips and didn't say anything. He'd said too much in his fury. He needed to watch out if he didn't want Moriarty to guess that he'd just phoned Mycroft a short while ago. Moriarty would become suspicious if he knew that. On the other hand, John wanted to gain time and the easiest way to do that was to keep him talking. He hadn't had any better ideas at the moment than to mention Donovan. He would have liked to give Sherlock - who was holding out next to Moriarty with the patience of a saint - a sign... calmed him, let him know that he was working on saving him - them. But he couldn't let anything show. He had no doubt Moriarty would notice if he dared attempt to give Sherlock a signal. And so he tried to filter out Sherlock and his situation as well as he could. He couldn't let himself be distracted - not by anything or anyone. He gritted his teeth and continued to fixate stubbornly on Moriarty, who now smiled scornfully.

 

"That's more like the style of your bosom buddy, Mycroft Holmes. I can't say I enjoyed bearing witness from afar to your rapid rapprochement. I have to admit it's a rather large thorn in my side and has caused me considerable inconvenience. Rather astonishing that even your pet has the mayor's number stored in his phone. He didn't have anything to say about it... but... was the relationship between the mobster and the politician really so close that the two of you played... _'fetch the stick'_ with him? It wouldn't surprise me in the least." Moriarty pulled a face before continuing: "In hindsight it might really have been better if I'd gone to the trouble of putting up my own candidate for the mayoral elections... financed someone, backed them... but I thought it would suffice to make sure that your candidate didn't get a foothold, Doc."

 

Moriarty gave a short laugh. It rang through the stone hall. "You see, Sebastian was all ready with his people. Ready to switch out the urns. Imagine his surprise when another gang did exactly the same thing. As they weren't _your_ people, he let them. It turned out later that they were working for Mr Holmes..." He seemed to ponder something. "I heard earlier that there was something foul about the elections in Leicester as well... and from that moment on I decided to keep an eye on this Mr Holmes. When I heard of his ambitions on London, I thought it was about time to plant dear Mary here as Mr Holmes' personal assistant - using a pseudonym and forged papers, of course." His eyes flitted briefly over to the blonde woman, who continued to hold John at bay with her weapon, without even the slightest hint of a tremor. "We're really going to have to do something about Mr Holmes in future. Put him on a shorter lead... won't we, Mary?"

 

"Sure thing, boss," Mary replied curtly.

 

"So?" John said. "What now?"

 

"You've foiled my plans," Moriarty answered, his voice cold. "That wasn't very sporting of you."

 

"I'm really terribly sorry," John said, sounding anything but. "If only I'd known."

 

"Sebastian..." Moriarty cut him off, "was supposed to take over your position. I wanted to remain in the background. Make plans... organise crimes... build up an empire. I would have left all the day-to-day details, the tiresome monotony, to Sebastian... the letters... the bills... all that nonsense... that's nothing for a genius like me to waste his time with."

 

"Your Sebastian was the perfect front man, eh?"

 

"MY Sebastian was loyal to the bone!" Moriary cried out in a huff. "And you... you killed him! I even had to go all the way over to his flat myself to make your phony evidence disappear!"

 

John widened his eyes in astonished disbelief. "You can't have known about that! You can't prove it!" But then an unpleasant thought occurred to him. "Unless..."

 

"No, none of your _precious_ bodyguards betrayed you," Moriarty broke in with a sneer. "I had cameras in the flat! Do you really think I would have left something as valuable as Sebastian unmonitored?" Moriarty paused. An ugly grin curled his lips. "Oh... of course... you didn't pay very close attention to your little pet yourself, now did you? Otherwise Mary wouldn't have been able to catch it when it got out. At least it was wearing its master's tag... Ever thought about a chip in the ear instead? Or a tattoo? _'Property of John Watson'._ Wouldn't be as easy to take out as this was." Moriarty pulled something out of the pocket of his coat with his free hand and tossed it at John. Sherlock's golden butt plug somersaulted through the air, glowing dully in the light of the petroleum lamps, only to sink into the murky brown water right in front of John's feet with a sickening plop.

 

John ground his teeth so hard that his jaw hurt. He breathed heavily in and out through his nose. _'Just mind games,'_ he reminded himself. _'Sick mind games. Don't fall for it, Johnny-Boy... don't let him provoke you.'_ But knowing that the bastard had touched Sherlock... had his hands on him... right there... had desecrated something with his filthy fingers that had such a special meaning to John...

 

Sherlock was used to the touches of strange men, of course. More than used to them. John couldn't help thinking of the countless faceless and nameless men Sherlock had been willingly subjected to in Irene Adler's brothel. He thought of the union leader, Glendale, whom he'd almost had killed... and he thought of all the men in his own life who had only ever cheated, betrayed, deceived, and left him.

 

His stomach turned at the memory, and he saw red. But then he caught sight of something... at the edge of his consciousness, at the edge of his field of vision. Was that a wink? The trembling of a single dark curl? He didn't know how it happened, but Sherlock's gaze pulled at him, caught him. Sherlock's gaze... composed, supplicating, apologetic... and John's anger and bitterness drained away, dissolved in the soothing, reassuring gleam of those fascinating pale eyes.

 

"I'm sure you don't blame me for giving him a plug from my own collection..." Moriarty went on in a chatty tone.

 

"If you've harmed a single hair on his head, you bastard..." John threatened him in a deadly quiet voice.

 

Moriarty was the villain here - not Sherlock. Moriarty, who had touched and defiled his property. Sherlock hadn't done anything wrong. He hadn't had any other choice than to let Moriarty do what he wanted.

 

John was certain of that, because Sherlock was different. Different than all the other men he'd ever had. Sherlock had never betrayed him, and would never betray him. He'd never run away before, and wouldn't do so in future... as long as they still had a future.

 

John for one was bound and determined to make sure they did.

 

He was just waiting for the one perfect moment... for that fraction of a second in which Moriarty's weapon wasn't entirely pointed at Sherlock's head. That was all John needed. A single, tiny moment of inattentiveness...

 

Interest flared up in Moriarty's eyes.

 

"Good... the lap dog is worth something to you after all."

 

"Let him go. He's got nothing to do with this!" John demanded in an icy tone.

 

"Oh... I don't see it that way … after all, he exposed a few things that I went to a great deal of effort to set up," Moriarty contradicted him easily. "But... I don't want to be unreasonable. If you shoot yourself right here, right now, I'll let him go."

 

"What?!" John thought for a moment he hadn't heard right.

 

Moriarty sighed in annoyance. "Is that so hard to understand? Sebastian is dead. I want revenge... and I want to have your organisation. It's inconvenient that Sebastian can't play the boss for me anymore, but that just means I'll have to do it myself. And in order for that to happen... you need to die, unfortunately. So... if you would _please_ just send a bullet into your skull, everyone would be happy." Moriarty waited, but nothing happened. He took a breath, irritated. "I can also let Mary shoot you - she's just dying to, you know. And if you don't die right away, I'd be pleased to stand on your neck until you've either drowned in this soup or your bones give out. But I'd really rather that neither of us get our hands - or shoes - dirty on your account." Moriarty waited again, and again, nothing happened. "Oh, for heaven's sake... then we'll do it like this," he muttered and untied Sherlock's gag enough so that the cloth rested loosely around his neck. "Go on... beg your lord and master for your life."

 

Sherlock gazed deeply into John's eyes before speaking with that unshakeable calm which would always remain a mystery to John: "Shoot me."

 

"WHAT?" John cried in horror. Mary and Moriarty seemed to be nonplussed and taken by surprise as well.

 

"Shoot me, John," Sherlock repeated. "No matter what he says, no matter what he promises you... I'm not leaving here alive. The charming Miss Moran here made that crystal clear during our tête-à-tête in the car. I thought there might be a way out, but..." He shook his head. "If you shoot me, at least they won't have anything they can hold over you, and you'll have a sporting chance. My death is a done deal, and if I'm to die, then... I want you to be the one... My life belongs to you anyway. You're the only one who has the right... to take it from me." His voice quavered a little, but then he gathered himself again and spoke the rest in a clear, firm voice: "I want to die by your hand, not by _his_ or _hers_." He delivered the final words with so much scorn that Moriarty shrank back a bit, although still keeping the muzzle of his pistol pressed against Sherlock's temple.

 

"Sherlock... no..." John said softly, shaking his head.

 

"John!" Sherlock insisted, and there was something urgent and final in his tone. " _I want_ to stop... _I want_ to end it now. Vatican cameos, John. _Vatican cameos_."

 

They held each other's eyes.

 

All of a sudden, John recalled with perfect clarity that day in Irene Adler's house when he'd pointed his gun at Sherlock. Sherlock had told him to shoot then too. And Sherlock hadn't shown any fear back then either. But John hadn't been able to pull the trigger.

 

He'd never had a problem with shooting people - especially not when someone was begging for death ... or for their life. But Sherlock... Sherlock was something else. Where Sherlock was concerned, John's usual rules and behaviours evaporated as if they'd never existed in the first place. He couldn't shoot Sherlock. He simply couldn't. But he had to do something - he wouldn't be able to stand hearing Sherlock beg for death again. A desperate laugh lodged itself in John's throat. Beg? When had Sherlock ever begged for anything? It was - as it had always been - a demand.

 

Would Moriarty really kill Sherlock, even if... The answer had to be ' _yes_ '. Sherlock was rarely wrong, and no one had contradicted him - neither Moriarty himself nor that Mary. What had Sherlock called her? Miss Moran? Was she related to Sebastian Moran in some way? Maybe his wife? That would explain quite a few things. In other words, she was out for revenge along with Moriarty.

 

Sherlock truly did seem earmarked for death. Would Moriarty torture him before he killed him? Would he violate him? Or had he already?

 

Time was running out for the two of them, and for the second time in his life, John didn't know what to do. It was a hateful feeling this time as well.

 

Sherlock wanted John to kill him... it was the last decision he was able to make for himself, his last request. Could John deny him that final wish?

 

John returned Sherlock's intense gaze without saying a word. Then he took a deep breath and whispered, "Okay." He'd made his decision.

 

He turned away from Moriarty, aiming instead at Sherlock.

 

The pale, mesmerising eyes lost themselves in John's for one last time before the lids lowered and a calm, almost blissful expression came over Sherlock's face.

 

Adrenaline raced through John's body, and everything around him slowed. As if he were viewing the scene on time lapse, John noted how astonished and dismayed Mary and Moriarty were at this turn of events. John aimed mercilessly at Sherlock's chest. When he pulled the trigger, his wrist jerked.

 

Sherlock collapsed onto his knees, pulling Moriarty - who had been holding his arm - partway down with him. Sherlock tipped to one side, slipped down, and ended up motionless at the base of the wall, his face just a couple of finger breadths away from the murky, filthy water.

 

Moriarty's pistol, left without a target, now pointed at empty space. John whipped around and shot at Moriarty, who gaped at him with a look of horror. A small red spot bloomed on the white shirt that was visible under Moriarty's coat. John heard the woman scream something inarticulate, the sound ringing in his ears. He ducked instinctively. A bullet sizzled past just over his head. He rounded on her and fired two more shots from where he was crouched.

 

A red fountain sprayed out of her neck, but John had already forgotten about her before she hit the floor.

 

Still gripping the pistol in both hands, he waded through the water, which rose just about a handspan above his ankles. He reached Moriarty just as he was about to take a step down the sloping wall, right before he lost his balance and collapsed, an expression of utter bafflement and surprise on his face. The hand which was still holding his gun hung limply at his side, while his upper body was more or less upright. He was basically dead - the message simply hadn't reached his brain yet. Still, it was an incredibly satisfying feeling for John to press the barrel of his pistol against Moriarty's forehead.

 

He would have liked to say something right then. Something meaningful. Something that would express all his revulsion and contempt. He felt the urge to give some explanation that would make his adversary understand his actions. But the only thing that came to mind was "Bastard!" He spat the word into Moriarty's face and pulled the trigger.

 

The report of the shot affected John like an act of emancipation. Moriarty fell forward and came to a rest with his face in the brown water. Blood flowed out of the exit wound in the back of his head. He was dead.

 

With a jerk that John felt physically, reality stopped for a moment, only to continue at its normal pace just a blink of an eye later.

 

Probably only a few seconds had passed since he'd shot Sherlock, but it seemed like half a lifetime to John. He took a deep, cleansing breath. He would have liked nothing more than to pump the entire contents of his magazine into Moriarty's lifeless body. Two bullets seemed far too few for this scum.

 

He probably wouldn't mention that to Call-Me-Ella at their next session.

 

Sherlock groaned beside him, and John hurriedly knelt down to him.

 

"Sherlock!" He patted Sherlock's cheek frantically.

 

"I'm not dead..." Sherlock murmured, in a daze.

 

"No - I shot you in the thigh. You must have been out for a bit," John explained, taking a look at the wound. There wasn't much blood. That was good. At least it wasn't pumping out of the entry wound in time with Sherlock's pulse, which John was measuring at his neck. That meant he could virtually rule out an arterial hit. He tore Sherlock's flies open in a single motion, turned him so he was lying half on his stomach, and pulled down his trousers.

 

"John, how can you think of that at a time like this?" Sherlock complained in a thick voice.

 

"I need to get a closer look at your wound - get your mind out of the gutter," John declared in a feigned teasing tone that probably wasn't fooling anyone. He inspected Sherlock's leg as well as he could. It was a clean shot, straight through, and there still wasn't very much blood. The artery probably really was still intact. At least all the evidence indicated as much.

 

He breathed a sigh of relief. A clean shot. The bones didn't seem to be injured, but he couldn't say much about the tendons or muscles. Now that that was taken care of...

 

"John!" Sherlock cried. "John... you..."

 

With practised fingers, John grasped the butt plug, ripped it with something bordering on violence out of Sherlock's body, and hurled it away with a grimace of utter revulsion.

 

"JOHN!" Sherlock shouted crossly. "With all due respect to your need to mark your territory... I'm bleeding to death here!"

 

"No, you aren't," John said gruffly, took a knife out of the pocket of his jacket, cut through the bonds on Sherlock's arms and rolled him onto his back. "As far as I can tell, the artery's most likely not damaged." He loosened the ropes around Sherlock's thighs, only to re-tie them above the entry wound on his left leg in order to prevent Sherlock from losing any more blood. "I need something for the wound..." he muttered. His eye fell on the handkerchief, which still hung loosely around Sherlock's neck. He unknotted it, smoothed it out in preparation for folding it back up to put over the wound... and paused. "This is... my handkerchief," he realised, perplexed. "How did that bastard get hold of my handkerchief?"

 

"I had it on me..." Sherlock admitted hesitantly, but before he could say anything more, there was a scraping noise and then from the direction of the entry hatch came:

 

"SHERLOCK!"

 

Sherlock's soft-eyed gaze promptly hardened and he glared at John. "You called my bloody brother!" he accused him harshly.

 

"Yeah, I bloody well did!" John agreed, unrepentant.

 

"Yes, he bloody well did!" Mycroft rejoined as he appeared at the foot of the staircase, breathing heavily. "We heard shots. Is everything all right?"

 

Gregory Lestrade descended the stairs behind him, taking in the situation with a single look.

 

"Okay. Ambulance. And then I'm calling the police!" It sounded as if he were defending a long-standing point of contention. He took his phone out of his parka without waiting for a response, only to stare it at crossly.

 

"No reception," he muttered in annoyance.

 

Mycroft stayed where he was on the last step and looked around as well. When he spotted the dead woman, his eyes widened.

 

"Miss Morstan?!" He turned to John. "What's my secretary doing here?"

 

"You should be more careful in choosing your employees, brother mine," Sherlock remarked smugly, only to promptly groan in pain when John affixed the handkerchief to the wound with another piece of rope. John had torn off a piece of Sherlock's shirt for the exit wound, his own jumper not being suitable bandage material. "Morstan was a pseudonym. She is... _was_... Moran's sister," he added through clenched teeth. "For God's sake, John! Must you be so rough?"

 

Mycroft grasped Greg's upper arm. "No police. No ambulance. I can't afford the scandal."

 

Greg stared at him in disbelief. "You cannot be serious!"

 

"Yes, I am," Mycroft replied, adamant.

 

"Mycroft ... this man - your _brother_... needs medical..."

 

"No, I don't," Sherlock interjected. "And ' _this_ _man_ ' is right here and can hear you."

 

"Sherlock, I don't really give a damn about your brother's scandals, and you _do_ need..." John countered.

 

"John - an ambulance won't be the end of it. I have a bullet wound... the doctors would report it, and then the police would get involved and they'd arrest you and lock you up and..."

 

"I know," John calmly broke into Sherlock's diatribe. "And this time I wouldn't care. I did what needed to be done. I don't regret it."

 

"You'd go to prison... for _me_..." Sherlock stammered.

 

"If I might interrupt this touching little scene for a moment," Mycroft remarked pointedly. "I believe it should be possible to arrange for medical care without the police getting wind of it. John?"

 

"Yes..." John agreed slowly, sending an assessing look in Greg's direction, where he was standing on the stairs snorting disagreeably. "It can be arranged. But this time I really am prepared to pay for what I've done."

 

Mycroft smiled coldly. "I'm afraid I cannot permit that much self-sacrifice. There's rather a lot on the line for me here as well, and I don't have any particular desire to find myself on the wrong side of an investigatory committee."

 

"All right, fine," John said. "I can have Sherlock's injuries taken care of, but in order to do that I have to get him to my car, and I'm going to need help with that. I know the Lord Mayor will keep his trap shut, but what about him?" He jerked his head toward Greg.

 

"You can leave him to me," Mycroft promised with a patronising air.

 

Greg ground his teeth so loud it was audible, but didn't say anything.

 

John gave Greg a sceptical look, but held his tongue as well. It was going to be difficult enough to transport Sherlock up the vertical rungs in his condition. He needed all the help he could get. Even if it involved an angry policeman. He just needed to avoid angering the aforementioned policeman any further. He took off his coat and spread it over Sherlock. "Here... you're shivering. And now hold on... I'm going to carry you over to those stairs."

 

"John...no..." Sherlock protested weakly, but when John lifted him up in his arms, Sherlock wrapped his hands around John's neck as if seeking an anchor.

 

Carefully - and yet as quickly as possible - John carried Sherlock to the stairs. Once there, he set him down gently on the landing, placed Sherlock's injured leg on a higher step, and cushioned Sherlock's head in his lap. John needed to rest for a moment, even given how little Sherlock weighed. The adrenaline in his body had been almost all broken down by now, and John was exhausted - not just physically, but mentally as well. He needed this brief respite before he could think about how to proceed from here. He needed to spend a few moments close to Sherlock, and he had the feeling Sherlock needed exactly the same thing right now. A little closeness, a little warmth, a little comfort. A confirmation - even if momentary - of what they were to each other, what they meant to each other …

 

"You've lost weight," he scolded Sherlock softly, caressing his dark curls. "Did you not eat anything again while I was away?"

 

"No, I did. Mrs Turner forced me," Sherlock explained with a faint smile.

 

"Remind me to give her a pay rise."

 

But Sherlock didn't respond. Instead, his face contorted in a grimace of pain.

 

"Does your leg hurt very much?" John asked, concerned.

 

"There are more pleasant forms of pain..." Sherlock said, and John broke into a low chuckle.

 

Mycroft watched the two men with a pensive expression..

 

"John... what about the gun?" Mycroft asked tentatively. "Fingerprints?" He indicated John's leather gloves with his chin.

 

"No," John affirmed and looked up at Mycroft with an expression of amused interest.

 

"And... er... is it... registered? I mean, if the bullets..."

 

John had mercy and explained: "No, I can keep my gun. No one will be able to prove I was the one who fired based on the bullets."

 

Mycroft nodded.

 

"But there is something that might be traced back to me..." John added. "There's a gold-plated butt plug in the bilge down there. I need it."

 

"A WHAT!" Greg cried, breaking his silence. Mycroft simply closed his eyes with a pained wince.

 

"You heard right, Lestrade," John declared with casual cheer. "A butt plug. Gold-plated. With my initials. If you'd be so kind as to fish it out for me? It went down right there." He pointed at the spot. "Don't worry, it's not very deep. I'd get it myself, but as you can see... I'm needed as a cushion," he concluded with a broad grin.

 

Greg shook his head, but took a disposable glove out of one of the pockets of his jacket, pulled it on, and went to the lowest step of the landing. There, he knelt down and felt around for the submerged toy. His efforts were soon rewarded, and he passed the piece to John with an inscrutable expression.

 

"Sherlock?" John asked once he'd stowed the plug safely. "Can we go on?" Sherlock nodded. "How did they get you down here anyway? Is there another entrance? Or were you not tied up during the descent?"

 

"Oh, I was - they had me tied up the whole time," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly. "There were two men posted at the bottom to catch me. They simply tossed me down and hoped I wouldn't break my neck."

 

John's hands clenched. No, two bullets had definitely not been enough.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

They somehow managed to transport Sherlock to the surface. Sherlock ended up pulling himself up rung by rung while John climbed up behind him, supporting him as well as he could. It was nerve-wracking and, in spite of the cold, sweaty work, and as soon as Greg grabbed Sherlock's hands from above, he hauled him the rest of the way out.

 

Now Sherlock lay on the cold ground, completely exhausted and gasping for breath. John spread his coat over him again. It wasn't good for him to remain lying there in the cold, but Sherlock needed a short rest.

 

"Sherlock..." John whispered to him. "Just hang on a little bit longer..."

 

"I'm all right," Sherlock answered in a tight voice that told John quite clearly he was not all right.

 

To John's astonishment, Greg came over to them and laid out his parka.

 

"He can't lie there," he said seriously. "He'll catch his death after all the trouble we went to for him." Together, they managed to roll Sherlock onto his side and stuff the parka underneath him. "Better than nothing," Greg grunted.

 

"Thanks," John said, which seemed to embarrass Greg.

 

"Oh, yes..." Mycroft began, "before I forget... the three men who were standing guard here... they're lying over there in the bushes. Bound and gagged, and quite thoroughly incapacitated for the moment."

 

John sent Mycroft and Greg a quick, appreciative look, which the police officer studiously avoided, but all John said was, "Good to know. I'd wondered what you did with those guys." He took out his phone. "I'm going to make two calls now," he told Mycroft. "And you two get Sherlock out to the street." He pointed in the direction he'd come from not all that long ago; it seemed like an eternity. "I'll go on ahead and get my car. We'll put Sherlock in and you needn't worry about the rest."

 

Without waiting for an answer, John entered a number. "Mike? It's John. Don't say anything, don't ask anything. I have to get Sherlock to a hospital without the doctors asking stupid questions and calling the police. Can you... Mike! Not now! Just answer me! Mhm... yeah, okay. I know where that is." He ended the call and began a new one. "Dave - grab Naresh and get over to Finsbury Park. You'll find three men tied up in the bushes near the McKenzie Pavilion. Take care of them." John issued the order in a cold voice. "You know... yeah, exactly."

 

During the two calls, he'd spoken with icy, hard-nosed precision, but when he knelt down beside Sherlock now, his expression changed completely and his voice became gentle. "See you in a bit," he said in a low voice.

 

At some point, John would try to understand everything that had happened. At some point, he'd try to understand why Sherlock had been prepared to sacrifice himself for him... to give up his life in order to ensure that John's enemies didn't have anything to hold over him anymore. It was a goddamned miracle that the two of them were still alive. John gave Sherlock one last look, but Sherlock's eyes were closed and his face was distorted with pain. Time was running short. Sherlock needed to get to a hospital, and urgently. Why had he never completed his medical studies? If he had, he'd be better able to help Sherlock now. It was with the greatest reluctance that John left Sherlock in the somewhat dubious care of Mycroft and Greg and ran back down to the street as fast as possible to get his car.

 

Mycroft looked over at Greg.

 

"Greg?" It was a call to action.

 

"Yeah, yeah, I'm going. I'm doing it," Greg answered indignantly, bent down to Sherlock and lifted him to his feet with surprising care. "Come on," he barked at Mycroft. "Take his other arm and put it over your shoulder. And then let's get out of here."

 

They helped Sherlock into John's coat, and then Greg put his own parka back on. They settled Sherlock between them, and together they dragged the injured man toward the exit with his weight hanging heavily on their shoulders.

 

When they got to the wooden fence, Greg left Sherlock with his brother and went ahead to the street to wait for John. They wanted to avoid a passing car or pedestrian noticing them. And so Mycroft hid with his brother behind a small brick building near the gate, listening to his worryingly shallow respiration and hoping they didn't arouse any attention.

 

Sherlock sighed abruptly and said, "Mycroft... don't do this to him."

 

"To whom? Do what?" Mycroft asked, puzzled.

 

" _Please_..." Sherlock said scornfully. "Lestrade of course." Then he became sober and solemn, and went on in a thin voice: "Don't do to him what you did to me."

 

"What..."

 

"He'd do anything just to see you smile... to please you... to gain your attention. Don't abuse that. Don't make him do anything for you that goes against his nature. He's... a good man... I don't know him, but the way John's been bad-mouthing him he must be a decent fellow." Sherlock panted, his breath getting short. The long speech had tired him visibly.

 

Mycroft hesitated before saying slowly, "That he is..." After a moment, he went on, in an enigmatic tone of voice, "Should I let him lock John Watson up then?"

 

Before Sherlock was able to reply, Greg returned and helped Mycroft stow Sherlock safely on the back seat of John's car. Luck was with them: despite the fact that it wasn't very late, it had been dark for a while already and it was so cold that no one was out and about on foot. The drivers apparently didn't pay them any mind, as none of them stopped or even so much as slowed down to ask what they were doing. As soon as the car door was closed behind Sherlock, John drove off at high speed.

 

Mycroft and Greg were left alone.

 

"Then... I'll get a taxi and..." Mycroft said, attempting to remain neutral.

 

"Don't be silly," Greg cut him off. "Come back to my car with me. I'll drive you home."

 

"Maybe not all the way to my front door," Mycroft pointed out. "There's a side street nearby without any CCTV cameras."

 

They walked silently back through the park.

 

"We'll have to climb over the fence again," Mycroft said after a bit. "It would have been better if we'd walked around the outside of the park, on the street."

 

"Where anyone could have seen us? Right," Greg snipped.

 

"Greg..." Mycroft said hesitantly.

 

But Greg cut him off. "I'm still pissed at you!" he ground out angrily.

 

"I know," Mycroft conceded. "I shouldn't have demanded this of you."

 

"That's an insight!" Greg shouted, upset. "A little late, but still! Yes, damn it! You shouldn't have asked this of me. Too bloody right!"

 

"Greg..."

 

But Greg still wouldn't let him finish. "Do you know what the worst part is? It's actually okay. It's all right. I know I should do everything I can to put John Watson under arrest... He killed two people - my God!" Greg stopped where he was and dragged both hands through his hair. "But all I can think of the whole time is that that criminal... that Moriarty... practically sat in your front office for months and I... the only thing I want to do is shake John Watson's hand and thank him that you're no longer exposed to a threat like that."

 

"Moriarty wasn't sitting there himself..."

 

"Yeah, I know! That Miss Moran or Morstan or whatever the hell her real name was. But she was in it with him. It doesn't matter if it was him or her who was sitting there... like a spider in the middle of its web!"

 

"Greg, I..."

 

"And all of that's a pile of steaming bloody crap! Don't even get me started on the three men in the bushes... I don't even want to know what Watson meant when he told his people to take care of them... I do - not - want to know! Do you hear me?!" He shot a blazing look in Mycroft's direction. "There was a time I was an honest, decent cop. And then I met you. I hope you've had fun dragging me through the dirt like this."

 

"No, I haven't," Mycroft contradicted him. "I told you how attractive I find precisely that decency in you. I don't make compliments like that easily, and I... Greg... whether you believe it or not... you are... of the utmost importance to me. I... _need_ _you_... I would be lost without your moral compass."

 

"Ha ha," Greg said. "That's a good one. You _never_ follow it! What good is the best compass in the world if you don't use it?"

 

"I use it constantly... it's the only way for me to tell that what I'm doing is wrong. Without a compass... I would probably be convinced I was doing the right thing even when I wasn't."

 

Greg stared at him with a look on his face that wavered between being placated, touched, bewildered, and irritated.

 

"Then stop exposing it to magnets. That will make even the best compass go wonky and stop working, in case you didn't know.”

 

Mycroft nodded. "I'm fully aware of that and I'll refrain from doing so in future."

 

Greg did a double take. "You... you're serious," he stated in astonishment.

 

"Yes," Mycroft agreed softly, equally astonished at how serious he really was, and at the fact that he'd listened to his brother's advice... and that it had been good.

 

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_**To be continued...** _

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_**Author's notes: Now to all the information and pictures I've gathered over the course of three days of painstaking research:** _

 

**Finsbury Park**

<http://list.english-heritage.org.uk/resultsingle.aspx?uid=1000804>

<http://www.haringey.gov.uk/finsburypark>

 

**McKenzie Pavilion and Furtherfield Gallery**

<http://www.furtherfield.org/gallery/visit>

<http://www.furtherfield.org/gallery/about>

 

**Hornsey Wood Reservoir aka Finsbury Park Underground Reservoir**

Link with description and pictures:

<http://www.harringayonline.com/forum/topics/fencing-off-of-finsbury-park-reservoir?commentId=844301%3AComment%3A573638>

 

**Images:**

<http://www.localityonline.com/location/reference/495>

<http://www.rexfeatures.com/livefeed/2014/08/14/finsbury_park_underground_reservoir,_london>

 

**Description:**

Rows upon rows of brick arches emerge out of the darkness in this (relatively) dry underground reservoir. The whole site is around 120m x 50m wide with a ceiling height of approximately 25ft. Access into the reservoir is via a inspection cover with a vertical ladder straight down. The frame measurements are 1.0m x 0.7m therefore the clear opening would be about 0.9m x 0.6m. This location doesn't come cheap, but its well worth the fee. (Haringey, London)

_**Source:**_ <http://api.ning.com/files/1TxjyclNmzuNB9FbqmcczIZCTUqGUgD*jHSjWrRAwhjqiqYhIHnuy29BfDoi2iEwBIy9Dt1uDf*ogJjJtdluoD63ifPQqu-K/2large.jpg?width=721>

 

 

_ **And now for the story:** _

 

**Layout of the park:**

 

**Visual illustration of the path John took:**

(The house in the background is the McKenzie Pavilion.)

 

(You'll find all of the pictures of the reservoir – and MORE - in the links above)

 

**Where Mycroft and Greg hid:**

 

**Where Mycroft and Sherlock waited for John:**

And – last, but not least:

The pic-set!

<http://lorelei-lee.tumblr.com/post/134581326744/pic-set-teaser-for-the-next-chapter-of-deflowered>

 

 

 **TEASER on tumblr** :

<http://lorelei-lee.tumblr.com/post/134518566754/when-he-arrived-at-his-destination-john-left-the>

<http://lorelei-lee.tumblr.com/post/134454366099/teaser-for-deflowered-directors-cut-more-to>

<http://lorelei-lee.tumblr.com/post/134414350654/teaser-for-the-next-chapter-of-deflowered>

<http://lorelei-lee.tumblr.com/post/134581214589/teaser-for-the-next-chapter-of-deflowered>

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and thanks:
> 
> This chapter was extremely nerve-wracking, and not just for me.
> 
> First and foremost, I'd like to thank the cuddliest husband ever, who suggested that I look for a reservoir to use as the site of the final showdown, and who even found the pictures for me. Not only that, he put up with my moods when I wrote myself into yet another corner on the fourth draft of this chapter. He even commiserated with me once in a while. So a special thank-you to him - my very own personal 'conductor of light'.
> 
> Then I'd also like to thank the following people:
> 
> SwissMiss – who is translating this entire story into English and also acted as a beta reader for this chapter 
> 
> themuller – who was there for me and helped me get this chapter into the shape you see it in now 
> 
> Glowworm und S. – who I was able to discuss story lines with, and who gave me helpful pointers for the plot and the motivations of the characters 
> 
> Thanks to all of you! I'd never have been able to do it without you.


	46. Aftershocks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Translation - as always - by the fabulous SwissMiss.

**Chapter 46 - Aftershocks**

 

_Sherlock stood before John, naked. John raised his arm and pointed at the door. Sherlock shook his head._

 

_"You're not getting rid of me that easily. I'm not leaving. If you want me gone, you're going to have to shoot me," Sherlock said._

 

_"All right," John said, and aimed his gun at Sherlock's chest._

 

_All of a sudden, there were brick walls all around him and it was dark and cold. John was standing in front of Sherlock, the gun still in his hand. Sherlock just stood there and waited... and waited. And then John shot, and when Sherlock looked down at himself there was blood all over his bare chest, and then John changed into Moriarty right before his eyes, and Moriarty laughed and shot him again. It hurt... so much... and Sherlock fell, and fell, and..._

 

"JOHN!!" Sherlock's scream cut through the darkness and he startled awake.

 

Sherlock was sitting in his bed. Yet it wasn't his bed. He looked frantically round at the darkness, his eyes open wide. Then a door opened and a narrow strip of light crept across the floor.

 

"Did you have a bad dream again, Mr Sigerson?" a female voice inquired.

 

Sherlock recognised it. Hair piled up high on her head, a heavy gait. Competent hands - Nurse Mildred. His brain came back online. A nightmare. It was just a nightmare. Again. He let Nurse Mildred settle him back down onto the pillow. He was in hospital. The subterranean water reservoir was far, far away and John hadn't shot him in the heart. His chest hurt anyway. He placed his hand over it.

 

"Let's get you into another gown," Nurse Mildred said with a firmness that didn't give Sherlock any choice other than to comply. "This one's dripping wet."

 

He always perspired when he had one of those nightmares. Cold sweat virtually poured out of every pore. He hated these stupid hospital gowns, but on nights like this he was glad it was so easy to get them off.

 

Nurse Mildred undid the tie behind his neck with practised fingers, helped him slide his arms out, and then simply pulled the rest of the gown out from under his cover. This left his lower body covered, and at least part of his dignity intact. It was equally quick and simple to put on the fresh gown. She let him stuff the bottom part of the gown under the cover himself, asking only if he needed anything to help him get back to sleep.

 

The words _'Yes, John,'_ sprang to the tip of his tongue every time, and every time he bit down on them and shook his head. And once the nurse was gone, he lay there awake every time. At least he had a private room in this ultra-modern hospital, which meant he didn't need to put up with idiotic questions from even more idiotic roommates who had no idea what he'd been through. But that also meant he was left alone with his thoughts on nights like this... thoughts that always ran down the same track.

 

He'd been prepared to die that night. When he'd been brought to that underground reservoir, he'd still had a sliver of hope that an opportunity would arise or a miracle would happen... but as events had taken their course, he hadn't seen any way of getting himself and John out of the trap alive. Watching John forced to make such a perverted choice of either killing himself or being killed... wrapped up in the promise to let him - Sherlock - live... a promise that neither Moriarty nor Mary Moran had intended to keep...

 

Sherlock's heart squeezed at the memory. It had been pure hell for him. A torment such as he'd never experienced before, and never wanted to again. To have to stand there, powerless and silent, and see how John had been affected by such a demand, had torn him up inside... torn out his insides... hollowed him out. It had been like dying in stages. A slow, creeping, painful death.

 

Sherlock would rather have died than become party to John's execution, for that's precisely what it was. He didn't want to live if it meant having to see John's cold, soulless body lying there in that forest of bricks... motionless and dead forever... He would rather have died than bear witness to Moriarty's triumph, to see the greed and lust for death flare up in Mary Moran's eyes and turn on him. Moriarty might even have forced him to take John in his arms, or staged some other disgusting scene with them before he'd let her kill him.

 

He didn't know precisely at which point his horror at being killed by Mary Moran or Moriarty had become greater than his fear of dying. No, that wasn't quite right. He wasn't afraid of dying, and never had been. His life up to now had never really seemed much worth living before, and he would have embraced death as an act of emancipation. But now... now he had John, and life with John was... absolutely wonderful. He still wasn't afraid of dying as such, but now death would also mean not being with John anymore. And the thought of being without John had become utterly anathema to Sherlock.

 

Once he'd realised that his death was a done deal from the outset, Sherlock had stopped burdening his brain with the superfluous search for a way out; instead, he'd begun trying to find a way in which his death might be useful for John. It was the last thing he would be able to do for him. The only thing he could still do for him in that situation.

 

John would - possibly, hopefully - live. But he would lose John.

 

Even though he'd resolved never to leave John's side again. No matter what John might do... John would never get rid of him again... unless... he shot Sherlock himself.

 

And so those had been his thoughts... his crude, unripened ideas arising out of the past few weeks and months, during which he'd come to understand just how much he loved John... how deeply he'd fallen for him.

 

As Moriarty continued to ramble on and on, it became clear to Sherlock that he really was the only leverage Moriarty could use to achieve his goals. And that had put an end to Sherlock's deliberations. He'd made his decision. He would die in order to assure John's survival.

 

There were two ways he could go about that. It would have been easy for him to push Moriarty and put up so much of a fight that he would have no choice than to shoot Sherlock on the spot. But by that point, his antipathy toward Moriarty had become so great that he would rather have drowned himself in the shallow effluent of that dungeon than to die by the hand of either him or his henchwoman. Moriarty had already touched him more than enough. Sherlock didn't want to be despoiled any further by his bullet.

 

He was just wondering whether he would really be able to drown himself before he was hit by one of Moriarty's bullets when Moriarty made a mistake.

 

He loosened the gag and gave Sherlock enough time to talk to John.

 

This gave Sherlock the opportunity to foil his plans and set things up for the death he desired.

 

If it had to be, then he wanted to die by the hand of the person he loved so desperately that he didn't care what became of himself anymore. He belonged to John. His life belonged to John. And only John had the right to take it from him.

 

It was his own decision, his own free will, and he tried to convince John, sensed how John shrank from the task, that he might refuse because he didn't understand... so Sherlock kept talking, explaining, tried to tell John everything in those few seconds that he needed to know. But it wasn't until Sherlock had the idea of using his safeword that John finally grasped how serious he was.

 

Throughout Sherlock's life, it had always been others who made decisions for him. Now at least he could have control over his own death, and that was a strangely liberating feeling, something close to redemption.

 

He heard John's soft ' _Okay_ ,' and looked him in the eyes one last time. Stored that sight deep inside himself and locked it away. When Sherlock closed his eyes, he was happy.

 

Then the shot, the pain, the unwavering belief that he'd received a mortal wound. His knees buckled, his legs no longer had the strength to hold him up, and then... nothing.

 

When he opened his eyes again some time later, the vaulted brick ceiling was still above him. It wasn't as if he believed in a heavenly paradise with clouds and angels, but he had imagined the afterlife would be a little different. And then John's face invaded his field of vision, and he started to suspect that something hadn't quite gone the way he'd intended. However, he didn't know yet whether that was good or bad. Then he abruptly became aware of the pain in his leg and he knew he was still alive. And that John was too.

 

John, his wonderful John, had apparently found a way out.

 

It wasn't until he was at the hospital - while John was speaking to the doctors in the A and E - that Sherlock realised it had been his willingness to die for John that had ended up saving them. His willingness and John's cold-blooded, pinpoint accuracy had turned everything for the better, against all odds.

 

Sherlock had looked over at John - John, who hadn't left his side once the whole time Sherlock was being examined. He'd reached his hand out to him silently, and John took it and didn't let go.

 

But since then, Sherlock had been having these nightmares almost every night and he had no idea why. Everything had ended well. John was alive. Sherlock was alive. His wound would heal eventually. Moriarty and Mary Moran were rotting in their Victorian reservoir slash tomb, and Mycroft was covering up the entire affair so that he didn't get dragged into it through his secretary's involvement... and so that John didn't go to prison, which would also reveal Mycroft's connections to the mob.

 

So why did he keep dreaming that he was being shot? It was usually John who shot him in those dreams, but sometimes Moriarty or Mary Moran took on the role. What was the problem? He'd asked John to shoot him, for goodness' sake! It had been entirely his idea. And John hadn't even done it willingly; he'd needed to be convinced first.

 

If Mycroft hadn't shown up that evening, Sherlock would have confessed his love for John right there in that accursed reservoir, holding nothing back. But Mycroft's presence had sealed his lips quite thoroughly. Everything that had happened since then - every look, every gesture - had told Sherlock as clear as day that John returned his unspoken feelings. Yet he hadn't said anything either. Not one word. Down to that day, John hadn't said anything at all that might indicate any deeper emotions, much less _love_. There were just those looks and touches, even though John had never made a secret of his opinions toward Sherlock. Why was he silent on this matter now? Sherlock couldn't help wondering whether he wasn't assigning a false meaning to those looks and gestures, whether he hadn't misinterpreted them... whether John really did love him...

 

What if he was mistaken? After all, he didn't have any experience with love or any of the other more tender emotions. What if it was simply pride of ownership, not love, that John felt toward him? Sherlock hadn't missed the angry red flame in John's eyes when Moriarty had thrown his butt plug at his feet - the plug which was, along with his violin and John's handkerchief, among Sherlock's most valued and prized possessions. That night, Moriarty had managed to soil and desecrate everything John had ever given him through his touches and actions. And he'd done it with a laugh. A laugh that showed he was fully aware of the meaning of those objects - which were tantamount to holy relics for Sherlock - while John was still in the dark. Sherlock would also never forget how important it was to John to remove Moriarty's toy... even before he'd properly taken care of Sherlock's injury.

 

Had Sherlock projected his own desires and emotions onto John? Had he simply imagined a presumed romantic motivation behind John's actions?

 

This uncertainty sealed Sherlock's lips even more effectively - and lastingly - than Mycroft. Somewhere deep inside, Sherlock was aware that this insecurity was the source and root of his nightmares. The fear of rejection was greater now than it had been before that fateful evening.

 

He didn't want to pressure John... didn't want to force himself on him... and therefore Sherlock remained silent, concealed his yearnings deep inside, shut them away, locked them up, and tried to forget them. In any case, he would wait to make any confessions until he trusted his own judgement a bit more, until he'd spent more time together with John and was better able to observe him... until they were back home again.

 

They'd been happy before he'd fallen in love with John too, hadn't they? He would simply return to that point in their relationship. Nothing could be easier. At least that's what he told himself.

 

It was interesting how Moriarty continued to exert a negative influence on his life, even from beyond the grave. Without his interference, without his abduction, Sherlock would have taken the first step long ago.

 

Now... he didn't dare. For fear of destroying everything he'd already achieved.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOOoo**

 

John sat in the same chair he always sat in when he had an appointment with Call-Me-Ella. She sat across from him, collected and professional as ever, taking notes on a pad of paper while he obsessively drummed his fingers on the arms of his chair.

 

"Have you discussed everything with him yet?" Of course Ella would pose the one question that was most uncomfortable for John. She always started with the worst possible question.

 

"I'm not even sure I should have told _you_ everything," John replied evasively.

 

Ella shot him a cool look and tapped her pen against her paper. John hated when she did that.

 

"Oh, I'm sure you left out a few details."

 

"Oh, you bet I did."

 

"So..." She returned stubbornly to her original question. "Sherlock. Have you spoken to him?"

 

"No."

 

"You said yourself during our last session that you needed to discuss it with him."

 

"I know," John said more forcefully than he'd intended. "I know what I said and I know I should talk to him."

 

"Then why haven't you?"

 

John stared at her angrily, not answering. She returned the look, simply waiting, not letting herself be provoked. John had to hand it to her - she certainly wasn't afraid of him, even though she knew more or less what his work involved. She wasn't stupid; he'd never given her any specifics, yet she'd been able to piece things together over time. It hadn't shocked her, and when he'd asked her about it once, she'd told him she used to provide psychological assessments for court cases, and after that there really wasn't anything that could shock her anymore. She'd explained it all in her friendly, calm way, without making a value judgement one way or the other. That had been the clincher for John... ever since then, he'd respected her and her advice. But now...

 

"Do you not want to tell him because you'd be saying something you've never said to _him_ before? But that you perhaps... have wanted to tell him for quite a long time?" Call-Me-Ella pressed.

 

"Maybe. Yes. No... I- I don't know," John blurted out, annoyed.

 

"Do you want to tell him?"

 

John silently examined first his knees then his fingernails.

 

"Do you want to say it now?" she proposed. "To me? Sort of as a … trial run?"

 

John shook his head.

 

"Why not?"

 

John ran his tongue across his teeth. "Listen, the last time... when I said something like that to someone... it..." He shook his head again and fell silent. His therapist didn't say anything either. She simply waited. John also hated when she did that. It worked every time. "That was so long ago, I don't even remember when it was."

 

"I think you know exactly when it was," Call-Me-Ella countered. "Possibly too exactly."

 

John suddenly found the tips of his shoes utterly fascinating. His silence intensified.

 

"You're scared," she declared.

 

"Yes," John allowed reluctantly.

 

"Of what?"

 

John didn't answer.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Sherlock eyed the lunch on the tray in front of him with the utmost distaste. As comfortable as the hospital was, the food wasn't any different than in other medical facilities. Overcooked spaghetti languished apathetically in a watery tomato sauce. On the side, there was a little bowl of yogurt with tinned orange slices. It was accompanied by a drink that the nurse had called _'a nice hot cup of coffee'_ , but which Sherlock had determined days ago was neither nice, hot, nor - in his opinion - coffee. Which left only the cup, but that seemed even less suitable for consumption than its contents. Sherlock pushed the tray away with a grumpy sigh. He'd never been a very big eater, and so he'd never imagined that he would miss Mrs Turner's culinary efforts so much one day.

 

The ringing of his mobile phone was a welcome distraction from the miserable display on his plate.

 

"Hello, Mike," he greeted the caller. "No, you're not interrupting anything. Rounds are over and they've just brought lunch... Yes, already. Forget about it, it's not worth the effort of eating it. Please let Susan know how exquisite the cake was that she brought by yesterday. And thank Jacques for the _tuiles aux amandes_ he sent."

 

"I will," Mike assured him with a laugh. "Is there anything else I can do for Your Highness?"

 

"Yes. Make me not be so bored," Sherlock demanded in a whingy, nagging voice.

 

"Not really my first priority. No one's ever died of boredom," Mike remarked. Sherlock could hear his grin.

 

"Are you sure?"

 

"Pretty much," Mike quipped. "How much longer do you need to stay in hospital?"

 

"At least another week," Sherlock complained. "And I've been here a week already. My brain's going to rot in here, with my body right behind. They won't let me do anything. They keep going on about tendons and nerves and how I should take it easy..."

 

Mike grunted softly. "You're exaggerating. You've only been in there four days, not a whole week. And you want to get back to top shape again, don't you?"

 

"Yes, I guess," Sherlock conceded warily.

 

"Well then - listen to what your doctor tells you."

 

"Mike?"

 

"Yeah?" Mike said, oblivious.

 

"There's something I've been meaning to ask you this whole time... How did you manage to finagle things so that this strait-laced hospital is treating my bullet wound... even wrote it up like that in my chart... yet neither myself nor John have been bothered by the police?"

 

"Let me have a few secrets, yeah? If I explained it to you, you'd just end up saying, ' _Oh right,_ ' and the magic would be ruined. No, I'm not going to do that. This one time I've managed to astound you, I'd like to maintain the illusion as long as possible," Mike said with a rather generous portion of smugness.

 

Sherlock let the matter rest, turning instead to a much more important topic.

 

"Is John coming by today?"

 

"Doesn't he come by every day?"

 

"Sometimes twice..." Sherlock said, distracted by the thought.

 

"Let me check..." Mike responded amiably, and Sherlock heard him leafing through some papers. Probably a day planner. Mike was rather old-fashioned in that respect. A calendar made of paper... incredible! "Yeah, I think... it should work... he has time early in the evening. This morning's his appointment with Ella, and then..."

 

"ELLA?!" Sherlock interjected, his tone sharp.

 

"Yes, Dr Thompson. You know, his therapist."

 

Therapist? _Therapist?_ Sherlock's head spun; he didn't know what to make of that.

 

"I don't know anything," he said flatly.

 

"Oh," Mike said, chastened.

 

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, this time with a chill in his voice. " _Oh_."

 

There was silence for a moment on the other end of the line. And then Mike dove into a rapid, wordy explanation.

 

"He didn't tell me he was going until recently either. I saw he had her card a while ago. I've no idea how many appointments he's already had with her..."

 

"Mike," Sherlock broke into the flow of words. "You're not making it any better. Perhaps you should simply stop talking."

 

"Good idea," Mike agreed with a weary sigh. After a brief pause, he asked contritely, "He really never discussed it with you?"

 

"No. I... Mike, I'll ring back tomorrow."

 

"Do," Mike said, sounding uncertain. "It's... Sherlock..."

 

"I don't think the doctors would object if I translated some letters for you," Sherlock said, attempting to remain focussed on business. "I can do that from bed. Just bring everything along the next time you visit. They won't even let me have a laptop here."

 

"All right. Then... I'll talk to you tomorrow, Sherlock."

 

"Yes. Tomorrow."

 

Sherlock ended the call and stared off into the distance.

 

Fantastic. Wonderful. Just what he needed... another piece of evidence that John felt nothing for him. All right, perhaps not _nothing_... but there was no way John was nurturing any romantic feelings for him whatsoever, because otherwise he would have told him about this therapy... wouldn't he? Why should a man like John ever fall in love with someone like _Sherlock_ , of all people?

 

Mike's innocent question resounded in Sherlock's head... ' _He really never discussed it with you?'_

 

No, he hadn't.

 

At least not … that. Of course they discussed things... laughed about things... exchanged kisses...

 

But they'd never properly discussed what had happened in that reservoir.

 

Naturally, the topic had come up more than once in the meantime, and they'd talked about it... what had occurred... they'd discussed the events themselves... but they'd never discussed what had really happened _with them_ down there.

 

John had never told Sherlock whether it had been difficult to shoot him... what had gone through his head... what he'd felt... whether it had been wrong of Sherlock to ask something like that of him.

 

And by the same token, John had never asked Sherlock what had made him offer to make that sacrifice... why he'd thought he needed to do it... what had made him so convinced he was doing the right thing... what he'd felt...

 

They never discussed any of that.

 

Sherlock had been close to unburdening himself, confessing everything to John, telling him everything he'd wanted to that day... but then there was that barrier again... a barrier between them, and Sherlock didn't even know where it had come from so suddenly.

 

And so he'd decided to wait a little longer with all of his declarations. Until he was healthier and could be released from hospital. He'd managed to convince himself that John was also just waiting for that moment to open up again, the way he'd done more and more frequently before this whole thing had happened. Sherlock had also presumed that John - a man like John - simply was not able to talk about things like that... that it was probably embarrassing for him. The whole affair with Victor was the best proof for Sherlock's theory. John didn't like to talk about emotions. Sherlock had come to terms with that and decided that when the right time came, he would be the one to take the first step, to put himself in the vulnerable position. John would then naturally follow his example.

 

But now...

 

Now everything was different.

 

Didn't people generally go to therapists in order to learn how to talk more easily and openly about their emotions?

 

And therefore, shouldn't John now be able to actively seek out an opportunity to talk to him?

 

Sherlock didn't know what to make of it all.

 

He only knew that he was hurt.

 

John had included Mike. Not Sherlock.

 

That was a bitter pill, and Sherlock didn't know how he was meant to swallow it.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Mycroft Holmes strode between the pillars flanking the main entrance to the pale cream-coloured, neo-baroque building. Once inside, he turned right, where he spotted John Watson a short distance away. Mycroft made his way through the various tourist groups and took up an inconspicuous position near John.

 

"The Immaculate Heart of Mary," Mycroft whispered sarcastically. "I'm disappointed. I'd expected a strip club at the very least. Not a church."

 

John shrugged. "Aren't we past these little games?" he retorted, keeping his voice equally low.

 

"Is it really... safe here?" Mycroft probed suspiciously, looking around as if for surveillance cameras. But all he could see were John's bodyguards standing nearby, mixing unobtrusively with the other visitors to the church.

 

"More or less," John replied dryly, turning his steps toward the next side chapel with Mycroft following in his wake. "The handful of parishioners here have their own worries, and the tourists are more interested in the organ and the main altar than they are in us." He stopped and examined the painting of Mary Magdalene, to whom the little chapel was dedicated. "Well? How's our dear friend Sally?" John asked in a deliberately disinterested tone.

 

"It will be all over the London papers in two days," Mycroft offered evasively.

 

John shot him a warning look. "Maybe, but I want to know now."

 

"She attempted suicide," Mycroft said, lowering his voice further. "Rather amateurishly, if you want my opinion. She's under medical supervision at the moment. She must have found out about Moriarty's... fate, some way or another. Her resignation has already been tendered. It will be announced two days from now... nervous breakdown or burn-out, it's not yet been decided what the press is to be told. Personally, I favour burn-out... it makes more sense in light of all of her achievements."

 

John ground his teeth. "I don't like her getting away scot free like this. I should really _take_ _care_ of her..."

 

"I'd advise against it."

 

"Ah... it would draw too much attention?" John asked, baring his teeth in a grin.

 

"Detective Inspector Lestrade wouldn't let you get away with it," Mycroft corrected him.

 

"Well, look at that... no more _Special Commissioner_. Lestrade back on active duty then?"

 

"It's what he wanted," Mycroft affirmed with a quiet sigh.

 

"Will he be taking over Donovan's job?"

 

Mycroft tossed a coin into the collection box and lit a candle at the altar.

 

"Not right away, at any rate," Mycroft replied easily, before continuing with somewhat more hesitation: "He... doesn't want any special favours."

 

John snorted. "It takes all kinds."

 

"Yes, I suppose it does."

 

"All right then... Jones?"

 

"Jones?" Mycroft asked blankly.

 

"Yes, I'd like Jones to succeed Donovan."

 

"Not on your life. That bumbling squid? Forget it," Mycroft declared categorically.

 

"Damn..." John swore under his breath, but regrouped quickly. "Fine, it was worth a try anyway. A compromise then... how about that Hopkins? I think he and I could agree on terms... he doesn't mind turning a blind eye to smaller infractions - it's only when it comes to murder that he takes things seriously."

 

"Hopkins... I'll see what I can do."

 

"Did anyone notice Miss Morstan not showing up for work yet?"

 

"Yes; after all, she's well known for her punctuality. I was quite worried when she didn't turn up at her usual time," Mycroft reported with his typical indifference.

 

John had to hold back a laugh. "So? How did it turn out?"

 

Mycroft's lips twitched with a faint smile as well. "Someone with a fleeting similarity to my secretary was procured, equipped with a wig and an appropriate wardrobe, and placed in the company of a man who still owes me a favour..."

 

"A man?" John cut in. "Who?"

 

"I think we may call him Sergeij in good conscience," Mycroft explained with vague amusement. "He's completely trustworthy," he assured John. "The happy couple exposed themselves to several surveillance cameras at airports on South American soil... all of the tickets were reserved and paid for in the name of Miss Morstan. It's only a matter of time until I'm informed that my strait-laced, reliable secretary fell into the clutches of a marriage swindler and has disappeared to South America."

 

"Are we going to be treated to the sight of a grief-stricken mayor?" John asked, grinning.

 

"Doubtless." Mycroft cleared his throat. "Shall we leave them to their own devices then? Down... there?"

 

"Yes," John replied immediately. "A couple of my boys have already been down there and... tidied up... destroyed evidence and... made any identification slightly more difficult."

 

"Do I want to know what..."

 

"No," John said firmly.

 

A few minutes passed during which Mycroft stared silently into the flame of the candle he'd just lit. "How is Sherlock?"

 

John gave him a look that was difficult to parse. "I'm not playing postman for you two. Sherlock's got a phone. I made certain he could keep it with him at the hospital, even though they don't like that kind of thing." He stepped away from Mycroft, turned on his heel, and left the church.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

 _Mycroft ran through the hospital as fast as he could. It didn't really suit the dignified poise he usually tried to maintain at any cost, but there was nothing he could have cared less about at the moment. Twenty minutes had passed since his mother's call. Were these corridors never going to end? He asked every doctor and every nurse he passed - '_ Sherrinford Holmes, intensive care' _\- and he was waved onward every time until he'd finally reached the correct ward. Two doctors came out through a door, and Mycroft knew instinctively that he'd found what he was looking for._

 

_One of the doctors noticed him and pointed him out to his colleague. The pity in the look they both gave him brought Mycroft part of the way back to his right mind, but he still couldn't entirely manage to maintain his composure. Did it even matter? Mummy couldn't see him and the doctors were hardly going to tell her how upset he appeared despite the new three-piece suit - complete with waistcoat and watch fob - he'd bought in order not to stick out at the part-time internship he'd recently begun at one of the ministries, in addition to his studies._

 

_Even Mummy's voice had wavered when she'd informed him of his father's car accident and given him the name of the hospital he'd been brought to._

 

'I'll be there as soon as I can,' _she'd said,_ 'but it might be too late. You go on ahead, Mycroft. Go to your father. You're already in the area. I want someone from the family to be there.'

 

_"Sherrinford Holmes?" he asked the doctors._

 

_Both of them nodded, their expressions full of concern._

 

_"Are you a family member?" the elder one asked._

 

_Mycroft nodded dumbly. "Yes, I'm his son."_

 

_"We called his wife," the younger doctor said._

 

_"My mother's on her way," Mycroft replied, feeling like he had that time he'd tried to buy a ticket to a dirty movie at the cinema despite being underage. "She sent me. She wanted me to stay with him until she gets here. Can I... can I see him?" He tried to scrape together some of the dignity he'd been amassing since his elementary school days, but he could tell by the expression of pity on the senior doctor's face that he was failing spectacularly. He must look like nothing more than a desperate boy, trying his best to pass for an adult._

 

_"Yes, you can go in," the older doctor finally acquiesced. "But... don't excite him, all right? He's had something for the pain and feels well enough given the circumstances."_

 

_"Which are?" Mycroft asked with a sense of foreboding, not moving from his spot. He knew that wasn't all. He simply knew._

 

_"Your father is dying," the doctor told him gently. "It might go very quickly. There's nothing more we can do for him. His injuries were too extensive. We're very sorry."_

 

_Mycroft didn't know if he gave the doctors any response to that; he didn't know how he came to be in his father's room. It wasn't until his father opened his eyes and smiled at him weakly that Mycroft became aware of his surroundings again._

 

_"Mycroft," his father murmured, looking pleased to see him. "It's good you're here... I... need to... tell you... something."_

 

_It was horrible for Mycroft to see how weak his father was, how pale... how limply he lay there in the hospital bed, and how much effort it took for him to speak. Mycroft nodded - he simply wasn't able to form any words._

 

_"Good..." his father said softly. "Mycroft..." He struggled to take a breath. "Mycroft, take care of Sherlock. Watch out for him. He's still so young."_

 

_"Sherlock?" Mycroft asked numbly._

 

_"Yes," his father said, his gaze becoming urgent. "Promise me."_

 

_"I..."_

 

_"Promise me," his father repeated, reaching for Mycroft's hand, which he then held with surprising strength._

 

_Mycroft blinked down at their linked hands._

 

_"I... yes. All right. I... I promise."_

 

_"Thank you," his father breathed out, and with those two words the remainder of his strength seemed to seep out of him. He sank down into the pillows and his grip on Mycroft's hand fell slack. Mycroft continued holding his father's hand firmly, and it wasn't until some time had passed that he realised he was holding the hand of a dead man._

 

_The realisation of this finality was a shock at first, but then he grasped the lifeless fingers hard with both of his hands as if he never wanted to let go._

 

_Uncried tears burned in Mycroft's eyes, but no matter how much he wanted to, no matter how strong the urge in him was, he couldn't manage to let them flow free. They constricted his throat until he thought he was going to suffocate, but still no flood of tears burst out of him. That relief was denied him._

 

_When his mother finally arrived and threw herself, openly sobbing, on her husband's body, he envied her her tears with an intensity that alarmed even him._

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

An orderly entered Sherlock's room and set that morning's pills and a letter onto the little table beside the bed.

 

"You have mail, Mr Sigerson," he announced superfluously.

 

Sherlock hissed as if he were suffering greatly. It was his sixth day in hospital.

 

"That must be a mistake - no one I know would send me a letter."

 

The orderly smiled at him automatically. "Looks official... you probably don't actually know whoever sent it."

 

After a deep, heart-felt sigh to express his ennui, Sherlock finally reached for the letter. Even though he didn't expect it to be very entertaining, it should be slightly better than watching his pubic hair grow. He slit open the envelope with a pencil without checking the return address, and took out several sheets of paper.

 

He quickly skimmed their contents, stopping abruptly before he'd reached the end of the first third of the document. His eyes slowly wandered back to the beginning, and this time he read the text attentively and with great care, word for word. He didn't notice the orderly leaving. The pencil slid out of his fingers and fell to the floor, likewise unnoticed. Sherlock read through the papers again, and then a third time.

 

Then he picked up his mobile phone and entered a number.

 

"Good morning, Sherlock," Mycroft answered on the other end. His voice sounded as smarmy and arrogant as ever, and Sherlock made a face.

 

"Why now?" Sherlock virtually barked down the line. "Why are you rescinding the conservatorship now, of all times?!"

 

Why not three months ago? Why not half a year ago? When it would have made a difference... when it had been the deepest desire of Sherlock's heart not to have to lie to John anymore. Might things have turned out differently if he'd been able to stand before John as his own man back then? If there hadn't been any need for secrets and half-truths between them?

 

"A thank-you would be charming," Mycroft replied in the same tone of voice, making the hairs on the back of Sherlock's neck stand on end. It was utterly repugnant to him to be beholden to his brother, especially for something like this! Mycroft had given him back his freedom and autonomy, and Sherlock knew he should be profoundly grateful for that (and deep down, he actually was) but he simply couldn't bring himself to admit as much to his brother. Too much had passed between them... too much broken china... too many hurtful words... too many unforgivable actions.

 

"Is it because I have John, and you think you can foist the responsibility for me off on him? Because I'm in ' _good hands'_ now?"

 

"Sherlock!" Indignation paired with gentle reproach - a combination that was guaranteed to make Sherlock see red.

 

"Where's the catch?" Sherlock pressed. "I can't believe you're just going to give up having this power over me. Just like that? For nothing more than a ' _thank-you_ '? And I'm supposed to believe that? After all the fun you've had interfering permanently in my life? Allow me to have my doubts."

 

A sharp intake of breath was audible on the other end of the line.

 

"Do you honestly believe I enjoyed it?" Mycroft retorted tightly. "To constantly have to... drag you out of that morass... to repeatedly be forced to witness your indiscriminate self-destruction... to have to see how you couldn't go without drugs for a single second..."

 

"Oh, come on! Don't give me that!" Sherlock interrupted him with cold derision. "You enjoyed it!" he hurled at him contemptuously. "You certainly didn't do it out of any great love for me, or because you were so concerned about my well-being."

 

Mycroft didn't answer at first, and Sherlock listened to his silence with a mild bewilderment that increased the longer it lasted.

 

"Sherlock, what I'm about to tell you..."

 

Sherlock burst out with a brief, sharp laugh. "Oh, _please_ \- what now?"

 

"No one else knows what I'm about to tell you. I've never even shared it with Mummy. When Father had his car accident, I was close by... I was working whilst attending university, and I happened to... but that's all irrelevant..." Mycroft took a deep breath, and Sherlock caught himself listening with bated breath. "Sherlock... I got to the hospital in time."

 

There was absolute silence for the space of several seconds. Then a single word escaped from Sherlock: "No."

 

"Yes," Mycroft contradicted him softly.

 

Sherlock shook his head in silent denial. "No... you- you always said he was already dead when you..." he choked out haltingly.

 

"I was able to speak to him one last time..." Mycroft continued slowly, as if every word required an extreme effort. "His last words... concerned you."

 

"What... what did he say?" Sherlock asked, stunned.

 

" _'Mycroft, take care of Sherlock. Watch out for him. He's still so young',_ " Mycroft repeated the words his father had passed on to him decades earlier.

 

Sherlock's eyes filled abruptly with tears. His lids fell shut, and the tears flowed freely down his cheeks. He bit down on his lips and cried silently.

 

"He always loved you more than he did me," Mycroft said so calmly that Sherlock's throat became tight.

 

"Oh, Mycroft..." he whispered, ashamed. "I..." he started, but broke off again when he didn't know what else to say.

 

"It wasn't your fault. You couldn't help it. I... was still... practically a child myself."

 

"I was too," Sherlock said with a hint of bitterness, swiping a hand across his tear-streaked face.

 

"I know," Mycroft conceded soberly. "But I didn't realise that until now." He took a deep breath. "So I fulfilled his last wish and took care of you as best I could. Even against your will. But... when I look back on the path your life has taken, I have to admit I wasn't very successful."

 

It was an odd admission on the part of his brother - to admit he wasn't without fault - and it was so forthright that Sherlock felt he needed to make a similar declaration.

 

"I didn't exactly make it easy for you," he granted.

 

"No, not really," Mycroft agreed. "And when it got to the point where I didn't know what else to do, I had a conservatorship installed."

 

In a completely twisted way, everything that Mycroft was telling Sherlock now made sense.

 

"Why didn't you ever say anything?" he finally asked. "About Father and what he told you? Why did you … carry that around with you the whole time?" It must have been a hardship for Mycroft. To be relegated to a spot behind his half-brother, and then in addition to be burdened with the responsibility for him. If Sherlock had been in Mycroft's shoes, he probably would have hated him too.

 

"So that you could constantly remind me of the fact that neither of my parents had any particular liking for me?" Mycroft replied coolly.

 

"I wouldn't have..." Sherlock protested.

 

"Yes. You would have."

 

"Never!"

 

"Oh, yes! You rubbed my nose in the fact that Mummy treated the two of us exactly the same often enough!"

 

"All right," Sherlock capitulated. "You're probably right... I probably would have, back then... but today... Mycroft, I'm sure Father loved you just as much as he did me."

 

"No, he didn't," Mycroft declared bitterly. "You were his favourite from the start."

 

"I don't think so. I was simply..." Sherlock cast about for the right words. "...younger... more in need of protection. You were so much older than me already. He probably thought you didn't need him as much as I did. But I do know that he loved you at least as much as he loved me. _Mycroft_. _Think_. You always say I was the dearest thing in the world to him... and whom did he entrust with my care? _You_. Would you entrust your dearest possession to just anyone?" Sherlock spoke faster and faster towards the end. He wasn't used to speaking to his brother like this, and he wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible, before he changed his mind.

 

Silence fell over them once more.

 

"I never thought of it quite like that before..." Mycroft finally said in a slow, almost hesitant voice.

 

"Because you're an idiot," Sherlock declared dryly. "Father thought you worthy of..."

 

"And now?" Mycroft cut him off brusquely, and Sherlock fell silent, bewildered. "John Watson? Is _John Watson_ of all people worthy of you?"

 

Sherlock barked out a short, hoarse laugh. It didn't sound very happy.

 

"You've got that rather backwards. I believe it's that I'm not worthy of him."

 

"Good God, Sherlock!" Mycroft sounded completely outraged, which did cheer Sherlock up. "You're a Holmes, after all! Why would you wish to throw yourself away on this man with his perverted little games?"

 

"Because those perverted little games are a source of endless pleasure to me," Sherlock explained indulgently. "And because perhaps, some day, he might return my love." Sherlock leaned back against his pillows.

 

So. He'd told Mycroft. Now he could sit back and wait for the lecture. It would probably go something like ' _You can't love a man like that,_ ' or _'Love! What do you know of love!'_ or ' _Emotions are wholly overrated and unnecessary.'_ But Mycroft surprised him yet again. He skipped the topic of love entirely, concentrating instead on a completely different aspect.

 

"You sound as if you've fallen utterly under this man's spell!" Mycroft cried in repugnance.

 

"What if I have?" Sherlock retorted calmly but with firm emphasis. "What would be so bad about that? I don't hear YOU complaining about Lestrade having fallen head over heels for you." Sherlock paused with a sense of satisfaction when he heard his brother gasp. He must not have reckoned with that jab. "He's even gone so far as to engage in illegal acts for you..."

 

"Stop speaking of Gregory in that way," Mycroft cut him off angrily. "As if he were... some kind of _whore_."

 

Sherlock grinned and casually played his trump card.

 

"The difference between a whore and a respectable citizen isn't as great as generally believed. Aside from that... you and YOUR policeman aren't just reading Bible verses to each other when you're alone, are you?"

 

"He isn't MY policeman," Mycroft gritted out before continuing with deliberate superiority: "He's... a detective inspector."

 

"I think he's good for you," Sherlock mused.

 

Mycroft heaved a heavy sigh. "I wish I could say the same of you and John Watson."

 

"You could. With an easy conscience, in fact. You simply don't want to," Sherlock continued his dig. But when Mycroft didn't respond to that, he changed tack and became serious again. "Thank you, Mycroft," he concluded softly.

 

"Get well, Sherlock," Mycroft said and ended the call.

 

Sherlock lowered the phone from his ear and pushed the end call button as well. Still, he couldn't take his eyes off the silent device for a long time. Did it just seem like it, or had he regained not only his freedom, but also a brother within the space of a few minutes?

 

There it was again... that complete absence of fear... yet that was precisely what frightened him. Annoyed at himself, Sherlock shook his head and read the document through again which rendered his conservatorship null and void. Autonomy and a brother...

 

Sherlock just hoped it wasn't too late for either one - or for both. Was his freedom still important to him? Did he even want a brother now? The brother he'd wished so hard for as a little boy?

 

Sherlock was still in the midst of these reflections when the door to his room opened and all of a sudden John was standing in front of him.

 

"John," Sherlock said stupidly. He'd completely forgotten that John wanted to come by. And now he was here. Of course right at the most inopportune moment. Disoriented and caught off-balance, Sherlock thrust the letter at John without so much as a word of explanation.

 

John raised an eyebrow in question, but took the papers just as silently and read them through with care. Sherlock watched him like a hawk as he read, but John's face was infuriatingly devoid of expression. There was absolutely nothing to be gleaned from his lack of reaction. By the time John had finished reading and folded the pages back up, Sherlock was dizzy with anxiety.

 

But then John smiled and Sherlock's heart started beating again. At least it felt that way, as the first few beats hurt terribly in his chest.

 

"So that's what it was," John said, still maddeningly calm and collected. "I thought it might be something like that."

 

"What? What did you... how could you... you knew?" Sherlock stammered in horror.

 

John sat down on the edge of Sherlock's bed. "I didn't know - but I suspected," he admitted.

 

"How long?"

 

John picked up one of Sherlock's numb hands and held onto it gently - almost tenderly.

 

"Ever since the very first moment. Since I returned from that first meeting with your brother, about to explode, and wanted to know if there was something else."

 

Sherlock blinked in confusion. "But how... the whole time?" he asked incredulously.

 

"How? Easy. You're a bloody terrible liar," John said with a lopsided smile. "I've told you that before. I always know when you're lying. Your face, your body language... all that might not give anything away... but your eyes... your eyes always tell the truth. Your eyes can't lie."

 

"But... if you knew... or suspected... why...?"

 

"Why didn't I say anything?" John interrupted Sherlock's babbling with a wistful expression around his mouth. "Simple... if you don't trust me enough to tell me the truth... then... it's my fault."

 

"No... no..." Sherlock protested frantically. It wasn't John's fault. He alone bore the responsibility for this entire miserable mess.

 

"Yes," John insisted gently yet firmly. "I hoped you'd trust me enough some day to tell me everything... but you can't force something like that."

 

Sherlock glanced down at his hand, which was still ensconced in John's. He saw it as if for the first time. Then he lifted his head and looked John in the eye. He examined John's face, seeking some point of reference, anything that would help him to finally understand this man. But John was so different than anyone else he'd ever known. John was sadistic yet caring, quick-tempered yet forgiving, brutal and ruthless and uncontrollable yet blessed with the patience of an angel where he - Sherlock - was concerned. Never before had anyone exercised so much patience with him, and he simply didn't understand it. Even now, he could see nothing but indulgence in John's face.

 

"You... you're not angry?" Sherlock asked in astonishment.

 

John smiled. "Would you prefer it if I were?"

 

Sherlock shook his head rapidly.

 

"Then I really don't know what you're complaining about," John said in a teasing manner, pulling Sherlock closer for a kiss, which Sherlock was deeply grateful for. Sherlock's lips pressed against John's with an intensity that was nearly painful, and welcomed his tongue. John's kiss... John's lips... John's tongue... they all helped him... serving as a living gag... stopping him from saying those words that lurked in his throat, tormenting him.

 

The words echoed in Sherlock's head: _'Then I really don't know what you're complaining about,'_ and his heart answered: ' _Maybe about the fact that you're the one who's keeping a secret from me now? Why should I trust you when you don't trust me? Why haven't you told me anything about Dr Thompson yet?'_

 

According to John's logic, that was all Sherlock's fault... and he didn't know how to fix it. Hadn't he been prepared to sacrifice his _life_ for John? Wasn't that sufficient to prove his trustworthiness? Was it not enough?

 

John reduced the pressure of his lips, wanted to end the kiss, but Sherlock clung to him with a small sob that came from deep in his throat and didn't let go until the urge to voice those questions had finally disappeared.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

A few days later, John's phone rang.

 

He'd just instructed Jacques to serve his lonesome midday meal in the office, as Mike was out on business. The butler had reacted with disapproval on the one hand, but also with understanding, which made John realise that he wasn't the only one who missed Sherlock... the entire staff did as well. Somehow everyone was lacking in pep when Sherlock wasn't there. There were even times when John felt as if the empty house (and how in the world could a house suddenly seem empty just because there was one less person in it?) were the enchanted castle where everything had fallen into a deep slumber as soon as Sleeping Beauty had pricked her finger.

 

Granted, Sherlock was no Sleeping Beauty and he hadn't pricked his finger - he'd been shot in the thigh by John... but before John could pursue the convoluted parallels any further, his mobile phone had rung. He frowned when he recognised the number and accepted the call.

 

"Hello, Sus-"

 

He didn't get any further than that.

 

"JOHN WATSON!" Susan shrieked at such a high volume and with such fury that John startled and held the phone away from his ear.

 

"Susan, what..."

 

"I CAN'T BELIEVE WHAT YOU DID!" Susan ranted on, and John automatically ducked his head and hunched his shoulders up as if acknowledging his guilt. No matter that he didn't feel the least bit guilty and had no idea what he had supposedly done. But when Susan was like this - and John had seen her like this three or four times during their acquaintance - she always had a damn good reason for it.

 

"What did I..."

 

"NO, JOHN!" she cut him off rudely, and John could hear her heavy breaths. "I don't want to hear one single word out of you. You're going to keep your mouth shut and listen to what I have to say," she went on. It was clear she was having trouble controlling herself, and John was just glad she'd called rather than seeking him out in person.

 

"Okay," he said in what he hoped was an appeasing tone of voice.

 

"You know I've never stuck my nose into your... _relationships_... as plentiful and indiscriminate as they've been." Neither the one nor the other was accurate in John's opinion, but he was smart enough not to enter into a discussion at this point and wind Susan up even more. "But now... this is absolutely the last straw. How can you do something like this to Sherlock?"

 

"What have I... you've known forever that I shot him! Why are you yelling at me about it now?"

 

"That's not what I mean!" Susan cried angrily. "I visited Sherlock at the hospital earlier today. I'd baked some bread and made the poor boy a few sandwiches with it. The food there is nothing short of catastrophic, you could really have put him somewhere where they have better cooks, but that's not the point. The point is that he cried his eyes out to me over how poorly you're treating him."

 

"I'M DOING WHAT?!" John blurted out, aghast. "I treat him like a prince and he..."

 

"His accusation is completely justified," Susan interrupted him sternly. "Of course I had to draw it out of him bit by bit... but after awhile I was able to piece together enough to figure out the whole picture." She took a deep breath. "John - how could you tell that poor boy to his face that you don't trust him?"

 

"WHAT?" John was now completely lost.

 

"That's right," Susan affirmed. "If you trusted him, you would have told him that you're going to therapy a long time ago, wouldn't you?"

 

John closed his eyes and rested his forehead on his hand. "Oh God..." he muttered. "How does he know?"

 

To his surprise, Susan hemmed and hawed a bit. "Well... it was like this... Mike..."

 

"Mike blabbed? I should have known," John said grimly.

 

"Oh, no, it wasn't really like that," Susan defended her beloved husband. "Naturally, Bumblekins assumed you didn't have any secrets from each other and that Sherlock knew all about it."

 

John had to suppress a grin when Susan let Mike's pet name slip out. It didn't happen often but it was a source of endless amusement to him every time.

 

"So - _John Watson_ \- what do you have to say in your defence?" Susan demanded. "How could you do something like this to that poor boy?"

 

"Would you stop calling him a _poor boy_? He's a grown man and he has a name," John retorted, somewhat annoyed, yet also touched that Susan was willing to stand up for Sherlock like this. "Susan, I didn't say anything of the sort to him... but... I think I understand how he came to that conclusion."

 

"Oh, you do?" Susan replied sharply. "And what are you going to do about it?"

 

"That, my dear Susan, is something that concerns only myself and Sherlock," John answered in a sugary sweet tone, and ended the call.

 

He also turned his phone off, just to be on the safe side. He didn't want to be subjected to another angry tirade from Susan. John got up and was just about to leave the office when Jacques entered with a tray containing his lunch.

 

"Jacques, change in plans," John said. "I have to go out again."

 

"But Mr Watson..." Jacques protested. "Your lunch..."

 

"I have to go to the hospital to see Mr Sigerson. There've been some unforeseen complications."

 

Jacques turned pale, and the dishes on the tray clattered lightly. " _Mon dieu_."

 

John looked up in surprise before letting out a short laugh. "Nothing medical," he explained cryptically and walked out, leaving a visibly confused butler behind.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

John came into Sherlock's room and stopped next to his bed.

 

Sherlock looked up at him, nonplussed. "John? I thought you weren't coming for another two hours.."

 

"Forgive me?" John blurted out then ran his tongue nervously across his upper lip.

 

"Always," Sherlock answered without hesitation. "Always."

 

John shook his head. "You don't even know what for!"

 

"That doesn't matter."

 

"That doesn't..." John echoed and looked away for a moment. "Sherlock... how often do I have to tell you that you shouldn't always forgive me everything, and especially not so quickly!"

 

"As often as it amuses you," Sherlock replied generously.

 

John sank down onto the edge of the bed with a heavy sigh. "The worst part is that I'm glad every time you do. When you forgive me. No ifs, ands, or buts." He took a big breath. "I'm in therapy. And I know that you know because Mike blabbed and you complained... you _mentioned_ it to Susan, and I also know you couldn't help it... Susan probably squeezed it out of you. I know her and I know how she is when she smells a secret. Susan called and read me the riot act, and it was a long one." John took Sherlock's hand and held it fast. "I trust you, Sherlock. I've always trusted you. Yes, I know... that's not entirely true... but it feels like it now, so... just let me finish this thought... this isn't exactly... all of this isn't easy for me. All right?" Sherlock nodded silently. "All right. So I... of course I trust you and you haven't done anything wrong, Sherlock. You've... always done everything exactly right. It wasn't your fault that I didn't tell you. I'm... I was embarrassed. That's why I didn't want you to know. I didn't want you to think... I... that there was... that I wasn't..."

 

Sherlock placed a finger over his lips to make him stop speaking.

 

"It's fine, John," he said softly, his eyes smiling.

 

"Much too fast... much too easily..." John murmured back just as softly, caught Sherlock's finger and ghosted a kiss onto it. "You really are completely incapable of taking care of yourself... you simply don't know what's good for you. That ' _shoot me_ ' being a prime example!"

 

"It saved us," Sherlock stated somewhat huffily.

 

"Yes, it did at that," John admitted. "They weren't expecting that... _He_ really didn't expect it."

 

"No," Sherlock agreed quietly and looked down at their intertwined hands where they lay on top of the hospital sheets. John realised for the first time that he always felt the urge to hold Sherlock's hand when they were together. "They thought I was so important to you that you'd never shoot me."

 

John's smile was somber. "But they didn't count on you being so much more important than that... important enough that I really would shoot you."

 

Sherlock lifted his head and looked up at John. There was tenderness and surprise in his gaze, along with a softness John had never noticed in him before. It must have been another one of those moments when John had succeeded in doing the right thing, and that made John happy.

 

"And I mean, Moriarty could have figured it out. After all, Moran also threw himself on my knife rather than betray his boss. But he somehow never really grasped the concept. He probably thought that was just the natural order of things... he took it for granted that others would sacrifice themselves for him... Mind you, for _him_... and _only_ for _him_." John shook his head. "But it's not. Something to take for granted, I mean. It's not... at all."

 

He put his hand on the back of Sherlock's neck and pulled him in for a deep kiss. Sherlock's lips parted with a willingness and affection that didn't just excite John in a physical way, but in an emotional way as well. So familiar... and yet never boring... so sensual... and yet so innocent...

 

Their tongues met and John could practically hear the erotic crackling in the air as he forgot everything else around him.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Mike strolled along the hospital corridor, humming softly to himself. He was carrying a flower bowl with an arrangement of orchids in one hand. Susan had ordered it several days ago, and now that it was ready Mike wanted to bring it to Sherlock personally. He knew John wasn't going to be stopping by until later, so he only knocked perfunctorily before opening the door.

 

"Hello, Sherlock!" Mike called cheerfully. "How are you..."

 

"Get lost, Mike!" John roared.

 

"Mike! Not now!" Sherlock shouted at him too.

 

Mike had seen enough to cause him to take a hasty step back and close the door again quickly. In doing so, he almost collided with someone.

 

"Sorry, I..." Mike apologised to the woman he'd almost bowled over during his retreat. She was wearing an elegant wool cape with a skin-tight emerald green dress flashing through beneath it. Her make-up was carefully applied, and her dark hair was swept up in a modern style that framed her face in a flattering way. She held a single red rose in one hand.

 

"Miss Adler," Mike blurted, somewhat breathlessly, when he recognised her. He'd never met her in person, naturally, but when John had been more or less a regular customer at her place of business, he'd gathered information on her as a matter of course and thus knew what she looked like.

 

"And you are...?" Irene Adler inquired with a reserved smile.

 

"Mike Stamford," Mike introduced himself.

 

"Oh yes..." She nodded, and Mike realised he wasn't the only one who'd done some digging. "I know. You're..."

 

"A friend of Sherlock and John's," Mike completed her sentence with a slight bow, holding his hand out.

 

She took it with three fingers of her right hand. "Of course," she said graciously. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

 

"You must be here to see Sherlock," Mike remarked, indicating the rose.

 

"Yes, I am."

 

"It's not the best time, I'm afraid."

 

"Oh, are they doing rounds?"

 

"No," Mike replied hesitantly. "John's with him".

 

A knowing smile passed across Irene's red lips, and her eyes lit up. "Oh! Is the good doctor Watson examining one of his private patients at the moment? Perhaps he's taking his temperature? With a big... long... thermometer?"

 

Mike paled and then blushed at the suggestive language. "No, no - nothing like that. They're kissing," he explained quickly.

 

"There's nothing like a satisfying doctor-patient relationship," she declared, with every indication of being pleased with the situation. Her gaze caught on the orchids that Mike was still holding in his left hand. "What beautiful flowers," she purred, stepping closer to Mike, who felt himself growing warm at her boldness. "I love orchids."

 

Mike felt like he was being driven into a corner. "Miss Adler, I have to inform you that I'm a happily married man," he conveyed with some effort.

 

"And I'm a happy lesbian." She lifted her chin in a challenging gesture. "And I still think the flower arrangement is gorgeous. They'll be wasted on Sherlock. He doesn't have an eye for things like that."

 

"Not that I wouldn't like to oblige you... but my wife will bite my head off if Sherlock doesn't get these flowers. She picked them out for him personally."

 

Irene pouted playfully, but then smiled once again. "Your wife has excellent taste." She took a step back, giving Mike a bit more breathing space, for which he was relieved. "So - the two of them are snogging. How long does that usually take?"

 

"I... erm... no idea," Mike stammered. "It depends."

 

"But they are engaged by now, aren't they?" Irene inquired, giving Mike a probing look.

 

Mike shook his head. "No, but I expect to hear the announcement any day now... although John would probably never call it an engagement," he answered with a grin.

 

"Fifty pounds say they're married in the next six months," Irene good-naturedly challenged him.

 

"Oh, I don't know..." Mike waved off the suggestion with a laugh. "John's really not the marrying type."

 

"But Sherlock is," Irene stated unequivocally. "Sherlock is definitely the marrying type."

 

"And what's that supposed to change?" Mike asked, sceptical.

 

Irene smirked. "Pretty much everything. Sherlock can be _very_ convincing when he wants to be. But you've probably never seen him like that, otherwise you'd know."

 

"No," Mike said automatically, but then he considered. "Although... he did manage to get John's butler to worship the ground he walks on."

 

Irene laughed, a silvery tinkling sound. "That sounds like a fabulous story, Mr Stamford. You simply must tell it to me."

 

"Mike."

 

A warm, friendly expression settled on her face as she said, "Irene."

 

"Good, Irene..." He held out his arm to her. "May I suggest we enjoy a cup of tea in the cafeteria down on the ground floor?"

 

"An excellent idea, Mike." She slipped her hand over his arm.

 

They walked away, chatting animatedly and on the best of terms.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

It was a week before Christmas. John had picked Sherlock up from the clinic, and now Sherlock stood rooted to the spot in the entry hall of their house, staring in horror at the oversized silver-and-pale-blue Christmas tree which put even the presumptuous chandelier above it to shame.

 

"Why?" Sherlock breathed out, aghast. "Just... _why_?" He looked beseechingly over at the mob boss standing beside him. "John!"

 

"They didn't ask me," John said with a sheepish shrug. "Mike gave them the money and Mrs Turner and Eleanor threw themselves into some kind of over-the-top decorating orgy. They even got Thomas and Jacques involved... every time I dared to ask what all this crap was about, they used you as an excuse."

 

"ME?!"

 

"Yes, you." John grinned. " _'Everything should be nice and cosy for Mr Sherlock when he returns. Mr Sherlock will want a Christmas tree. Mr Sherlock will like silver decorations better than gold'_ ," John mimicked the members of his household staff. "And so on and so forth..."

 

"Oh my God," Sherlock whispered in shock.

 

"Yeah... looks like they've really developed a soft spot for you. You're just going to have to live with it," John said with fake sympathy.

 

Sherlock glared at him. "Where are they all anyway? I mean, not that I expected a receiving line to greet me..."

 

"I gave them the day off," John told him. "I wanted to have you all to myself today. They weren't exactly happy about it... but they were so upset with me anyway that one more thing didn't really make a difference."

 

"Upset?" Sherlock replied, confused.

 

"Yeah, I declared the upper storey a decoration- and Christmas-free zone, thus garnering their eternal wrath."

 

"Thank you," Sherlock said, and meant it. "It's not that I don't like it, it's just... Christmas... after... it simply wasn't what it used to be." He spoke haltingly, not sure whether to mention his father's death right now, concluding with a self-conscious, dismissive laugh: "It's just not my favourite holiday."

 

John placed a hand on his back, and when Sherlock felt the warmth emanating from the man at his side he relaxed again.

 

"Not your favourite holiday, hm?" John growled in a low voice, causing Sherlock's libido to spring to life. "Should we change that? Should I get out my cane and ask whether you've been naughty or nice?"

 

Although his heart beat faster at the suggestion, Sherlock pretended not to be impressed. "John, don't tell me you've just tried to make a Christmas-themed sexual innuendo," he said in a pitying, derogatory tone of voice.

 

It was clear that John had to bite back a grin, but he answered with practised sternness: "Keep it up, mister, and you'll be feeling the business end of a riding crop."

 

"Finally," Sherlock sighed with a twinkle in his eyes. "I thought the day was going to be a complete washout."

 

They went up the stairs together. It was obvious how disturbing it was for John that Sherlock still had to rely on a crutch. Sherlock tried not to let the pain show that struck him from time to time, but one glance at the look of concern on John's face made it clear that he wasn't being very successful.

 

"Sherlock, your leg..."

 

"Don't," Sherlock cut him off. "Not today. Not now," he requested more gently, and John nodded.

 

When they finally stood in front of the door to their new bedroom, Sherlock's stomach fluttered with nerves.

 

"I... I should probably shave... or..."

 

"Out of the question," John objected with mild reproach. "Do you really think I'm going to let you out of my sight for a second? Now that I finally have you here? I've waited for this moment for more than three weeks. That's long enough. More than enough. One second more would be nothing but a waste of valuable time that we could spend in a much different - and more pleasurable - way."

 

"A-all right," Sherlock agreed, hesitating. "It's just..." He chewed on his bottom lip. "I wanted... to look _good_... when the time came. It should be..." Sherlock took a deep breath, sighing. "... _perfect_."

 

John wrapped one arm around Sherlock's hip. "You're here. I'm here. That's enough for me. It can't get any more perfect."

 

Sherlock's body leaned into John's, nestling subtly against him. "Have you already..." he asked quietly.

 

"Slept in there?" John completed the question, then shook his head. "Not one single night." With those words, John reached out his arm, pushed down the door handle, and opened the door with a powerful thrust, allowing them to see into the room beyond.

 

Sherlock's eyes widened, and he leaned into John even further. "It's beautiful," he breathed out, seized by emotion, and - to his great consternation - felt tears welling up. He struggled to swallow them back down, but his eyes remained moist. It truly was beautiful. Almost too beautiful to be real.

 

The late afternoon sun fell through the generous windows, casting the room in soft, warm, pink light.

 

The walls, the drapes around the bed, and the sheets composed a symphony in blue, contrasting sharply with the dark wood of the bed, which was flanked on either side by two matching nightstands, each with its own lamp.

 

Sherlock's knees trembled, and John pulled him into his arms.

 

Sherlock's crutch clattered to the floor, where it lay forgotten, as Sherlock and John's lips met in a tender kiss that soon became hungrier and more passionate.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Sherlock lay on his back on the blue sheets, permeating the room - and John's ears - with his lust-filled moans. John had arranged him on the mattress so that his buttocks almost hung off the foot end of the bed.

 

His arms were stretched out and tied to the head of the bed with a rope. Several pillows underneath him raised his hips up far enough that John wouldn't have any trouble entering him from a standing position later, thanks to the height of the old-fashioned bedframe. Padded leather cuffs encased Sherlock's ankles, spreading his legs and pulling them up, where they were likewise bound with ropes to the lower bedposts.

 

John stood at the foot of the bed, still dressed in shirt and trousers, which accentuated Sherlock's own nakedness in his mind, emphasising it in the filthiest possible way. Going by the greedy gleam in John's eyes and the frequency with which he licked across his upper lip, he was utterly enjoying the obscene sight laid out before him.

 

Sherlock shuddered under the heat and hunger in John's gaze, and his body writhed in its bonds... not in order to free himself, but in order to enjoy his helplessness, to become more aware of the inevitability of what was going to happen.

 

The ropes and cuffs creaked softly with his movements, and John ran the riding crop very, very slowly in a steady downward motion over Sherlock's erection, his testicles, the soft skin of his perineum, before finally tapping it in a very promising manner against Sherlock's sensitive hole, which first relaxed under the gentle stimulation of the crop before tightening even further.

 

John stretched his lips to a fiendish grin and reached back to deliver the first blow, which Sherlock greeted with an enthusiastic shout.

 

John hit him again and again. At first slow and methodical, then faster and more erratic. Sherlock's pleasure was so great he could no longer tell up from down, as the crop left marks on the insides of his splayed thighs.

 

Each blow was like a burning kiss on his skin, and the pain tongued and licked across his trembling thighs, quaking with desire, crawled up his body and lit a fire in his belly that could only be quenched by John.

 

Then John suddenly stopped, and Sherlock gasped for breath. His chest rose and fell at a frantic pace, and he felt the absence of pain as a terrible loss... as if a line had been cut, leaving him floating unmoored on the surface of the ocean.

 

"John..." he croaked hoarsely.

 

"Soon..." John soothed him. "Soon... I just want to... the sight of you... nothing like it..."

 

John's words crept across Sherlock like sunbeams, warming not only his body but also his soul. He moaned softly and felt the throbbing of his swollen member under John's torpid - almost enraptured - gaze even more intensely than before.

 

"Okay," John said, his voice raw, when he'd feasted his eyes long enough on Sherlock's trembling body, his twitching opening, and the red streaks on the pale skin of his inner thighs. "One more. Just one. Think you know where."

 

"Oh God, yes..." Sherlock panted.

 

"Beg me for it," John ordered him.

 

Sherlock was breathing hard. He knew what John wanted, and he wanted to give it to him. It still cost him dearly... but it was a delicious feeling to bow to the will of someone else.

 

"Hit me, John... please, hit me... on my... on my... my hole..." Sherlock whispered haltingly. Despite the heat that suffused his body, he still felt the shame of those vulgar words making the blood shoot into his cheeks.

 

"Oh yeah...?" John replied, drawing the words out and expertly prolonging Sherlock's torment with his next question: "Should I hit you there? Right smack on your greedy little... _hole_?"

 

The first few drops of pre-come welled up out of Sherlock's penis, moistening his heated flesh.

 

"Yes, please, John," Sherlock begged.

 

"It's going to hurt," John mocked him with false concern. "A lot."

 

"I should hope so!" Sherlock blurted out.

 

"You..." John said slowly, "… are going to regret that." And then he struck.

 

Sherlock didn't feel anything at first, but then so many contradictory sensations flooded him at once that he wasn't even able to take in air to scream. Obstinance and indignity, pain and pleasure, devotion and denial all complemented each other, combining to leave Sherlock in a feverish, breathless kind of ecstasy.

 

He heard John's excited pants, felt the pressure on his orifice and hands grasping his hips in an unyielding grip, and then John sank into him with several rough strokes.

 

Although Sherlock was virtually paralysed, he was still hyperaware of every sensation, his body vibrating with desire and his heart beating so fast that his chest threatened to burst. Black spots flickered in his vision, and he felt light-headed... like he was floating... weightless and infinitely aroused.

 

Suddenly, a blow landed on his face, and Sherlock gasped for breath in shock. The black spots and the peculiar lightness disappeared as rapidly as they'd come. He returned to his senses and smelled sweat, saw John's face over him, felt the pain in his cheek and arse, and that wonderful pressure deep inside him.

 

"Breathe, dammit!" he heard John's voice, and obeyed.

 

John's next words sounded like a sigh of relief. "Not that it isn't flattering that it's apparently so easy for me to fuck you into a coma... but I don't need that every time."

 

"Fuck me?" Sherlock echoed, raising one eyebrow... albeit with some effort. "I don't see very much of that at the moment."

 

John laughed, and a shiver of foreboding ran down Sherlock's spine. "Just for that backtalk, you're only allowed to come when I let you. Not one second sooner. Do you understand?"

 

"Yes, John," Sherlock replied in delight. "Now don't talk so much, do it!"

 

An oily grin spread across John's face. "With pleasure," he answered sweetly and started to hammer into Sherlock at a breakneck pace.

 

Sherlock enjoyed every single stroke to the utmost. With every pass, John rubbed across his prostate in the most delicious way, stimulating it, winding him up to the most dizzying heights and not giving him a moment's rest.

 

"John..." Sherlock implored him after not too long. "Please... let me come...I... I'm... now... oh, pleeeease!"

 

"No," John said coldly, not breaking rhythm for a moment.

 

Sherlock lifted his head so he could see John. "What?" he asked with the first signs of desperation. "But I... I … I can't control myself any longer!"

 

"Too bad."

 

"Oh God," Sherlock groaned and threw his head back down onto the mattress. He slowly began to comprehend John's evil plan. "You're not going to... aaaah... give me any... nnnggghhh... breaks... are you..."

 

"No." But in spite of his categorical denial, John did slow his movements a little.

 

"But I... I really can't any longer... John... JOHN... oh God... Joooohn!"

 

"Tsk tsk... in that case... you should probably beg me to help you hold out a little longer," John suggested with a smug grin. "Ask me to hurt you," he rumbled in a low, hoarse voice. "Ask me... to pull your pubic hair. And then we'll see if you still find pain so arousing. I'd wager not."

 

"Oh God," Sherlock murmured, completely overwhelmed. Not only was his yearned-for fulfilment to be denied him for an unpredictable length of time... he was also supposed to be made an accomplice to his own frustration and torment. What a horrendous... ghastly... breathtaking... wonderful idea.

 

"Please, John..." he stammered after a brief hesitation, during which his erection continued to throb urgently. "Please... hurt... hurt me... I don't want... to be disobedient... I don't want... to come yet... pull my pubic hair." Sherlock actually had no idea whether the resultant pain would give him a sudden, unstoppable, meteoric orgasm or whether it would be sufficient to deflect his imminent climax - he'd been shaved down there for so long, and the dark hair that now surrounded his penis again was odd and foreign, and didn't seem to belong to him.

 

John reached into the thatch of hair with one hand, taunting, "Since you begged for it sooo nicely..." and pulled so abruptly and so hard that tears shot into Sherlock's eyes and he cried out. His erection jerked, but immediately afterwards the urge to explode on the spot wasn't quite so strong anymore, and he was able to get it under control. John let go, and Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief.

 

"Aren't you going to thank me?" John asked severely.

 

Sherlock stared up at him. Waves of pain and pleasure coursed through his body, and it took his brain a while to decode the message contained in John's words.

 

"Thank you, John," he whispered in a daze, and John caressed his cheek gently.

 

"Well done," he said to him in a low voice, and Sherlock glowed at the unexpected praise.

 

But no sooner had the words left John's mouth than the slower thrusts were history, and John was fucking him again with hard, deep strokes.

 

Sherlock didn't know how long he withstood the erotic torture this time before his arousal again became too great for him to control on his own.

 

"Joooohhnnn," he pleaded. "Please... I'm about to come... let me... ejaculate... pleeease... I want to..."

 

"No," John smashed his hopes with a gleeful grin, and Sherlock would likely have burst into tears if everything hadn't been so startlingly erotic and utterly fantastic.

 

Once again, John slowed down a bit, waiting for Sherlock to ask him for something else that would postpone his orgasm.

 

This time, it took Sherlock a little longer to voice the words that sat in his throat. This time it cost him just a little bit more effort, since he knew exactly what he was asking for. As unpleasant as the pain was, as frustrating as it was when the orgasm he yearned for moved just out of reach... at his own behest... due to his own desperate pleas... it was precisely that contradiction that aroused Sherlock to a degree he never would have thought possible. His entire body vibrated, and he felt more alive than ever before.

 

"John..." he finally managed to force out between his lips. "Please... hurt me, pull my hair... so I... I don't want to... come yet."

 

"Hmmm," John went, as if thinking about it, before saying decisively, "No."

 

"WHAT?" Sherlock blurted out, stunned. "John, I... please... what..."

 

"Shhh," John said, and Sherlock fell silent. "I don't think it would have quite the same effect a second time... I'd better do something else. Do you think... it would work... if I..." Sherlock watched, his eyes wide, as John's hand came closer and closer to his stiff cock. He hardly dared to breathe. "If I... do this." Two of John's fingers came into contact with Sherlock's sensitive, engorged glans, and a fraction of a second later, his fingernails dug hard and merciless into the tender flesh.

 

Sherlock's arms yanked at his bonds as he screamed at the top of his lungs. Pain pulsed through his erection, which didn't become one whit softer, and even as the soreness slowly ebbed away, the lust-fuelled urgency returned to his groin.

 

"Don't I get a thank-you?" John asked with playful innocence, resuming the hard, deep thrusts, rubbing his stiff member relentlessly across Sherlock's prostate, stimulating it to the limits of what Sherlock could handle.

 

Sherlock never wanted him to stop. "Thank you," he managed to get out, and he truly meant it this time. "Thank you, John... I... I..." The weighty words _'I love you'_ were on the tip of his tongue, but then John started stroking his erection with one hand, and those three little words were swept out of his brain with a wave of ecstasy, as if they'd never been there in the first place.

 

Following the lengthy, unwanted abstinence during his hospital stay, Sherlock's self-control was in shambles... everything was too exciting... too overwhelming...

 

"John...I'm going to come!" he moaned.

 

And then John finally spoke the redemptive word: "Yes."

 

Sherlock's cock throbbed, swelled even further, his body arched up, thrashed against his bonds, and then a devastating orgasm broke over him. John continued fucking him through his entire climax, extending Sherlock's pleasure, kept brushing his prostate and triggering an additional little discharge every time. Sherlock responded to every fresh ejaculation with a blissful moan and muscle contractions that massaged John's cock even more within that twitching, hot passage. But it wasn't until Sherlock's legs hung limp and heavy against the ropes and he was reduced to nothing more than soft whimpers that John thrust in once more with a throaty groan and spent himself in Sherlock's overstimulated, satiated body.

 

He collapsed on top of Sherlock and lay there over him, hot and heavy. His shirt, which he hadn't taken off, was wet with sweat and stuck to him, smearing Sherlock's semen across his stomach.

 

"God... Sherlock..." he gasped, exhausted. "You... are... absolutely incredible. I..." John stopped speaking and swallowed, appearing for all the world as if he were embarrassed about something. Sherlock wondered what John had wanted to say, but he was too tired to really pursue the question. He preferred to focus on the feeling of John's slowly softening penis still deep inside him, and on the gentle echoes of lust and pain, which were having a pleasantly soporific effect on him.

 

John lifted himself with a soft sigh, pulled carefully out, and hastily did up his trousers - which he had only opened rather than taking off. Then he took something out of his trouser pocket, observed by Sherlock's wearied eyes. Sherlock saw the glitter of something golden before John's hand - with the object - disappeared between his shackled legs.

 

But that was enough for Sherlock. He knew it was _the_ butt plug... his butt plug. He sighed happily when John slid it into his loosened, pliant hole with gentle pressure, ensuring that John's sperm would remain trapped snugly inside Sherlock's body.

 

John's hands caressed Sherlock's thighs before pulling his buttocks apart so that he could see the handle with his initials better. His gaze became soft, almost reverent, before his fingers slid over the end of the plug and tapped it softly. Sherlock stretched toward him luxuriantly, and that greedy gleam appeared in John's eyes once more.

 

"Mine," John whispered, his voice gruff.

 

"Yours," Sherlock whispered back without hesitation.

 

On an impulse, John bent over, pulled Sherlock's head toward him by the hair, and kissed him roughly. Sherlock readily returned the kiss, but rather than becoming more passionate, their touches became more tender and gentle, all without losing any of their intensity. They kissed slowly and without any rush, until Sherlock thought he was going to melt away. John's tongue licked across Sherlock's lips, requesting rather than demanding entrance, and Sherlock opened himself to him without reservation. Their tongues touched, sucked each other lightly, made the most of the moment. The two men drank each other's breath in, enjoying the fulfilment of the unexpected yet natural intimacy that accompanied their sensual kiss.

 

Sherlock felt light and free, and disliked having to release John's mouth. But after a while, John broke the kiss and pushed the hair off Sherlock's forehead in an affectionate gesture. While John cleaned him, applied some cream to the welts on his legs, checked the wound on his thigh and loosened his bonds, Sherlock continued to float on an endorphin rush and let John do whatever he wanted. When John finally put his arms around Sherlock, pulled him further up on the bed and spread a blanket over them, Sherlock rested his head on John's chest.

 

"At least cover me up properly," Sherlock complained after a few moments. "It's cold somewhere back there."

 

He heard John laugh quietly before saying with affectionate mockery: "As you wish, your highness." He then rearranged the covers and pressed a kiss into Sherlock's unruly curls.

 

Sherlock closed his eyes and listened to John's rhythmic, reliable heartbeat, felt John's arms around him and the sheet over both of them, thought about the drapes surrounding the two of them and the walls of their room that shut out the outside world... and imagined each of those components forming a layer... and all of those layers weaving themselves into a protective cocoon around them... binding them together... to each other.

 

And right then, at that moment, Sherlock was happy... happier than he'd ever been before in his life... happier than he'd ever thought possible.

 

Sherlock snuggled in closer to John, sighing blissfully, and fell asleep.

 

Unbeknownst to the two men, there hung above them - tied to a loop of the bed drapery - a little sprig of mistletoe.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_**Epilogue to follow...** _

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

At the almost-end of this story, I now have one request. I don't think it's too outrageous to ask for lots of comments at this point.

 

This story has kept both you and me in suspense for nearly a year, and it's really hard for me to let the boys go off on their own now. But after the epilogue, they're going to have to muddle through the rest without their author.

 

I should probably also let the NSA and all the other government intelligence organisations know that my rather unusual browser history really is all down to research for this story, and that I didn't have any intention of staging an attack (or anything similar) on London's City Hall or any other site.

 

Oh, the things I looked up for this story...

 

\- the properties of surgical knives

 

\- ferry connections between England and Holland

 

\- towns in Scotland that have both hotels and a park, and which are at least a 5-hour drive from London and aren't big tourist centres

 

\- canopy beds, antique

 

\- songs... both classical and pop, and whether they can be played by a solo violin

 

\- kitschy 'bedroom paintings'

 

\- London's City Hall, including the design, architecture, layout, and nickname amongst London's inhabitants, along with the views from the Lord Mayor's office

 

\- crime rates in London, classified by borough

 

\- electoral regulations and procedure for the mayoral elections in London - including the usual dates and the individual electoral districts

 

\- electoral regulations and procedure for the mayoral elections in other large cities in Great Britain

 

\- Indian names

 

\- sex toys (by the bucketload...) - particularly med-fet and sounds :D

 

\- biscuit specialties and recipes (including trying them out myself...)

 

\- French (the language!)

 

\- riding crops and the specific names of each part of the riding crop

 

\- architecture and houses in various areas of London

 

\- hierarchy of the mafia

 

\- monthly cost of a furnished flat in a less desirable part of the city

 

\- the Winter Wonderland festival in Hyde Park

 

\- weather in Great Britain in each season

 

\- time of sunrise and sunset on certain days

 

\- job titles and ranks including how to get promoted within the British police

 

\- the British legal system - especially conservatorships

 

\- symptoms of cocaine withdrawal

 

\- what it takes to have a ' _dry_ ' orgasm

 

\- cognac glasses and whiskey glasses

 

\- cocktails, especially a ' _Black Velvet'_

 

\- types of whiskey and distilleries (well... I didn't really need to research that :D I already knew exactly what I was looking for...)

 

\- chandeliers and stairways in villas

 

\- operas and arias

 

\- possible physical (and psychological) injuries from being slapped

 

\- furniture, especially Hepplewhite furnishings

 

\- political structures in London (powers, rights, and duties of the Lord Mayor)

 

\- titles within the Anglican church

 

\- expensive cognacs

 

\- expensive luxury watches

 

\- public venues in London

 

\- ice sculptures

 

\- the symbolism of koi fish

 

\- the difference between psychiatrists, psychotherapists, and talk therapists

 

\- Italian (also the language! LOL)

 

\- the correct plural of espresso

 

\- poems about Crieff and the poet McGonagall

 

\- Michelangelo's Pietà

 

\- historic, defunct tanneries in London (didn't end up using it)

 

\- abandoned buildings in London near the Thames (also didn't end up using it)

 

\- subterranean water reservoirs... no longer in use... and photographs of them, including exact layout

 

\- access points to Finsbury Park (Google Maps can be a desperate author's best friend)

 

\- and... last but not least... churches in London and their interior design

 

 

 

**The Church of the Immaculate Heart of Mary - Brompton Oratory**

 

Don't laugh... that's really the name of the church that Mycroft and John visit. And that's exactly why I chose it... and because it also happens to have a side chapel for Mary Magdalene... you know... before good old MM met Jesus, she was in the same line of work as Sherlock.

 

Here are the links with additional information:

 

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brompton_Oratory

 

http://www.bromptonoratory.com/virtualtour/index.html

 

http://www.bromptonoratory.com/Oratory_Home.html

 

And now... don't forget to review and comment! :)

 

Thank you.

 

And here's a little reward for those of you who have stuck it out this long:

 

[ http://lorelei-lee.tumblr.com/post/134976240909/teaser-for-the-next-chapter-of-deflowered](http://lorelei-lee.tumblr.com/post/134976240909/teaser-for-the-next-chapter-of-deflowered)

 

 

 

 

[ ](https://webmail.xch.fraunhofer.de/owa/redir.aspx?SURL=36AWsSPbXKnJ43v7XDuCIENKGpRPfcQtxcFgIZhf3jE4AOao-APTCGgAdAB0AHAAOgAvAC8ANAAwAC4AbQBlAGQAaQBhAC4AdAB1AG0AYgBsAHIALgBjAG8AbQAvADcAZgBiADIAYgBmADMAYwA4AGMAYwBiADAAZQBhAGEAMQAzADUANwBkAGQAMAAzAGUAZQA4AGIAYQBiADAAMgAvAHQAdQBtAGIAbAByAF8AbgB6ADYAdQB2ADQASwBmAGQAeAAxAHIAZABqAGEANgBzAG8ANABfADUAMAAwAC4AagBwAGcA&URL=http%3A%2F%2F40.media.tumblr.com%2F7fb2bf3c8ccb0eaa1357dd03ee8bab02%2Ftumblr_nz6uv4Kfdx1rdja6so4_500.jpg)

[ ](https://webmail.xch.fraunhofer.de/owa/redir.aspx?SURL=lwKtYHbJmV437UHqoVqlDk4gG9zx-WoblqQyE-8ckhA4AOao-APTCGgAdAB0AHAAOgAvAC8ANAAxAC4AbQBlAGQAaQBhAC4AdAB1AG0AYgBsAHIALgBjAG8AbQAvAGYAYQBiAGUANABjAGMAOQBiAGQAZgBlADkAZgBkAGUAYQBhADIANQA1ADQAMAAxADgAZgA4ADgAOQBhADQANgAvAHQAdQBtAGIAbAByAF8AbgB6ADYAdQB2ADQASwBmAGQAeAAxAHIAZABqAGEANgBzAG8ANQBfADUAMAAwAC4AagBwAGcA&URL=http%3A%2F%2F41.media.tumblr.com%2Ffabe4cc9bdfe9fdeaa2554018f889a46%2Ftumblr_nz6uv4Kfdx1rdja6so5_500.jpg)

 


	47. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With this epilogue we will come full circle... we started with Violet Sigerson's death and now... well... you will see.  
> And the most important question: will they say those three little words and will there be a marriage proposal?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First things first...  
> SwissMiss - Thank you for this brilliant translation. Words can not express how much I owe you and adore you.
> 
> To all my readers - You. Are. Amazing. I promise I will reply to every comment as soon as I find the time. But be assured: I treasure each and every one of them. They made me laugh, they made me cry, they made me blush like mad and the made me happy when I needed it the most. Thank you. I feel so honoured.

 EDIT:

[SaraDobieBauer ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SaraDobieBauer/pseuds/SaraDobieBauer)was so kind to make a [cover for this story](http://saradobiebauer.tumblr.com/post/135976007111/it-should-have-been-strictly-business-being-a)!

 You can see the whole collection of coverart and fanart [HERE](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3339449)!

 (and... by the way... if someone feels the urge to write a fanfic for this fanfic or make art or other fanworks... don't be shy! Contact me on [tumblr](http://lorelei-lee.tumblr.com/) and let me know. I don't bite.)

 

 

 

**Epilogue**

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

_**6 weeks later...** _

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

John and Sherlock visited the cemetery on a surprisingly nice day in the middle of February.

 

The drive from London had taken them through increasingly bucolic landscapes until John was convinced they were going to run into a herd of cows around the next bend in the road. After they parked their car, they walked together along the main path, past majestic trees that seemed to be stretching their bare branches toward the sun, as if in supplication for a renewal of all things living. Yet despite the mild temperature, spring - and thus the start of a new cycle from bud to blossom to blade - was some way off yet.

 

There were still little piles of snow to be found in some of the shadier spots, although the first snowdrops were pushing their tender white blossoms through the dark earth and grey grass.

 

The headstones in this part of the cemetery were old, and John realised - even without knowing the precise directions Sherlock had received - that they weren't going to find the grave they were looking for here.

 

They moved along slowly; even though Sherlock's wound had healed admirably, he still had a limp. He'd traded in the orthopaedic crutch for a fashionable walking stick whose silver handle flashed now and then in the light of the sun.

 

Almost all the gravesites they passed were adorned in some manner or other. Some had been planted with evergreens and had lights installed, others had planters filled with flower arrangements on top, and still others were decorated with bouquets.

 

"I should have brought flowers," Sherlock murmured pensively. They were the first words he'd spoken since they'd left their house. He hadn't opened his mouth once during the drive, instead staring out the window, lost in his own thoughts in an anomalous bout of self-reflection.

 

"We'll remember next time," John suggested, trying not to let it show how relieved he was to hear Sherlock speaking again.

 

John knew by now how much Sherlock hated it when someone showed consideration toward him, when John worried about him or even tried, just a little bit, to... not exactly to coddle him, but, well, to pamper him. It hadn't been like that before, but ever since the events in Finsbury Park...

 

The path split just ahead, and Sherlock took the right-hand fork without really thinking about it. "This cemetery goes on forever," he complained after a bit.

 

"We'd be a lot faster if you'd finally get rid of that stupid crutch," John couldn't help remarking. Sherlock's limp bothered him, as well as a constant, needling reminder.

 

"It isn't a crutch, it's a cane, and I need it because you shot me!" Sherlock retorted.

 

"You wanted me to shoot you!"

 

"I wanted you to shoot me _dead_ , not shoot me in the _leg_. There's a world of difference there."

 

"Excuse me for saving your life! Won't happen again!"

 

"I hope not! I don't really fancy spending the rest of my life as a hostage for you."

 

"As soon as we get home again I'm putting you over my knee until you can't see or hear straight!" John threatened.

 

"Grand. Looking forward to it!" Sherlock shot back, unimpressed and somewhat stroppy.

 

John chewed the inside of his cheek and ground his teeth lightly. "I know perfectly well that the only reason you're still using that cane is to make me feel guilty even longer."

 

"Possibly," Sherlock conceded dryly. "Although it does also look rather elegant. Gives me a certain _je-ne-sais-quois_. But I'm mainly using it because MY LEG HURTS! Still!"

 

"You do realise it's all psychosomatic? Your leg healed up a long time ago," John accused him. "It's all in your head. You complain about being in pain half the day, but as soon as we have sex it all blows over!" John stopped short. "Don't laugh!!" he hissed angrily. "That's not meant to be a pun! But it's true - I've done things with you on purpose to put you in positions where you should have been screaming in pain... _Stop laughing_! Yes, I know, you did scream, but... bloody hell! You know what I mean! When we have sex, everything's wonderful and nothing hurts even if you were barely able to crawl up the stairs just moments before. AND NOW STOP WITH THE LAUGHING! From a strictly medical point of view, you're as healthy as a horse. Any pain is purely psychosomatic."

 

Sherlock wiped his cheek hastily to get rid of the tears of laughter that John's unconscious word play had elicited.

 

"Psychosomatic!" he then spat derisively. "You have that from that Ella! She's the only one who could have put that into your head! God, I hate that woman! What else have you told her about me?"

 

"That you're impossible when it's that time of the month."

 

Sherlock stopped walking. The corners of his mouth twitched. He was still glaring at John, but the next moment he burst out in unwilling laughter.

 

"Why are you still seeing her? That's just... a money-making scheme."

 

John inspected the tips of his shoes just a moment too long. "You know why I go to her," he said gruffly. "So that something like... what happened after Crieff doesn't happen again. I'm doing it... for you."

 

"For us," Sherlock corrected him gently. "I know." He stood there for a while, not sure what to do, before giving himself a little push. "And Mike will get something out of it too," he added, deliberately aiming for a lighter if somewhat forced tone. "You haven’t yelled at him in quite a while now."

 

“I also haven’t waved my gun in his face lately.”

 

“No?” Sherlock asked with mild interest.

 

"No," John echoed the more relaxed mood. "I'd need a larger calibre to do much harm anyway..."

 

Sherlock giggled and John grinned. They started walking again.

 

"Are we almost there?" John asked after a while.

 

The path they'd taken had become narrower, the headstones more modern, and Sherlock had been looking around more often in the last couple of minutes.

 

"It must be around here somewhere," Sherlock said slowly, and stopped walking. His eyes scanned down a particular row of graves. "At least according to what Mycroft told me."

 

"Yeah, about Mycroft..." John stood beside Sherlock. "Are you going to have... contact with him more often now?"

 

"I don't know yet. Why do you ask?" Sherlock answered before grimacing in irritation and examining the graves on the other side of the path.

 

"Oh, maybe because it might hurt my reputation within the mob if I'm on such good terms with the mayor?" John said, pretending at disinterest before his voice took on a testy undertone. "Do you have any idea how fast a rumour might start going round that I was going to scuttle some plan because of you, or because of him? Have you considered that it might hurt my reputation as a crimelord if I associate with a mayor who ISN'T under my thumb?"

 

"John, you're making a mountain out of a molehill again," Sherlock placated him absently without taking his eyes off the row of stones. "No one knows we're related, and Mycroft won't be the mayor forever... Your problem will solve itself eventually."

 

" _One_ of my problems... ONE!" John insisted. "And how do you picture the future with your brother? Do we have to invite him for tea? Along with his policeman?" It was something he'd been thinking about for a while now, and the notion didn't exactly sit right with him. Sherlock had had a little too much contact with his brother recently for John's taste. Granted, all they did was talk on the phone and argue and snipe at each other most of the time... but they still kept calling each other.

 

"His policeman has a name. It's Gregory Lestrade - as you are well aware."

 

"Yeah, I know," John shot back rudely. "Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. Back in active service. My God! He could get me in a hell of a lot of hot water..."

 

"He won't," Sherlock tried to assure him. "He..."

 

John snorted. "Don't avoid the issue. I know where this is leading! We're really going to have to invite the two of them over?!"

 

"Perhaps not that, precisely... but..." Sherlock hesitated, interrupting his search in order to cast John a nervous glance. "Mycroft thinks it would be a good idea if I... visit Mama Sylvia."

 

John's eyebrows rose of their own accord. "Do you really think that's a good idea?"

 

Sherlock shrugged as if it didn't matter to him. "Mycroft thinks it would make her happy. She wasn't like an evil stepmother from a fairytale. She was never... malicious toward me, never hit me or anything like that... she treated me the same way she treated her own son."

 

"As bad as that?" The words slipped out of John unbidden, and Sherlock chuckled.

 

"It could have been worse. Today, I think... motherhood just wasn't her calling. But she was always... dutiful. She attended every school do... sat in the audience at every performance either Mycroft or I took part in... she never scolded us if one of us broke something..." Sherlock fell silent and his eyes focused on something far away... on a past, a memory that only he could see, because only he had lived through it.

 

"But..." John prompted gently. The word's presence had been too clear between the lines of Sherlock's statements. Too large to ignore.

 

"She never hugged us," Sherlock continued, making a helpless gesture. "She wasn't... she isn't... that type of person."

 

John's eyes widened in surprise. "And you really want to visit someone like that?" he asked curtly.

 

"I think I should. Father would have approved. He must have loved her very much at some point, and even later... he still liked her quite a lot," Sherlock said, sighing softly before returning his gaze to the present, to John. "It might really make her happy to see that I'm... doing well."

 

John wet his lips uncertainly. "Sherlock, I..."

 

All of a sudden, Sherlock's focus snapped to a spot behind John's shoulder. His eyes narrowed and he let out a short cry. "There it is!"

 

John turned around.

 

Indeed.

 

There was the grave they'd been looking for.

 

_Violet Sigerson._

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

Beside a trail that ran parallel to the back side of the cemetery, up on a small rise, stood a dark, non-descript car. The window on the driver's side was open, and a man sat in the driver's seat with a pair of binoculars, which he hastily hid behind his seat when the sounds of an engine approaching became audible and a motorcycle came into sight.

 

The motorcycle pulled up beside the driver's side of the car. The motorcyclist took off his helmet and ran a hand through his short, grey hair. He didn't dismount, however, instead remaining astride the powerful BMW.

 

"Hello, mayor!" he cheerfully addressed the man behind the wheel of the car. "Might I point out to you that you're violating the rules of the road? This isn't a public thoroughfare, and I don't believe parking is allowed here. How's that compatible with the stature of your position?"

 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips. "And how about you? Detective Inspector... how would it look in your service record if people got wind of the fact that you have been misappropriating public property for your own personal use?" He glanced pointedly at the motorcycle, which was painted with the unmistakable yellow and blue Battenburg checks that identified it as a police vehicle. If he perhaps lingered a bit too long on the Inspector's - very civilian-looking - black leather attire, that would remain their little secret.

 

"Keep it up - you'll be in for a citation in a moment!" Greg threatened, not entirely seriously.

 

"And might I point out additionally that you're out of your jurisdiction? Detective Inspector?" Mycroft continued diffidently in an arrogant, nasal twang. "In case you haven't noticed - this isn't London anymore..."

 

Greg absorbed Mycroft's reply with diffidence.

 

"Leave those two alone for a bit," he said all of a sudden. "I think they can handle it well enough without you spying on their every move." He tossed a glance over his shoulder into the cemetery, where two figures could be seen in an open space devoid of trees or bushes. One was tall and slender with dark hair, wearing a long, dark coat, while the other was somewhat shorter and had lighter hair.

 

"That's easy enough to say," Mycroft contradicted him sourly, not even pretending he hadn't understood who or what Greg meant. "But that's not just anyone, it's my brother!"

 

Greg looked at him with gentle, understanding indulgence, which nearly drove Mycroft up the wall.

 

"Stop worrying about him for no reason," was Greg's simple advice.

 

"I always have a reason!" Mycroft insisted obstinately.

 

But Greg could be stubborn too. "Mycroft... they're in love. Even a blind man with a cane could see that."

 

Mycroft pulled a face as if he'd eaten a lemon. "Love! Bah!" he spat out disdainfully.

 

"Mycroft..." Greg's voice took on a warning, rather bossy tone.

 

"If only there were a prospect of him putting a ring on my brother's finger..." Mycroft huffed. "But the way I judge John Watson's character, a pair of golden handcuffs would be more likely - and that wouldn't even be the worst part." He sank deeper into the seat of the car, as if he were being pressed down by a heavy weight.

 

"No?" Greg inquired, mostly because it was apparent he was expected to, even as he tried to suppress an amused grin.

 

"No," Mycroft affirmed in a dark and dreary voice. "The worst part would be that my accursed brother - as I've come to know him - would go into raptures over the handcuffs and prefer them to a ring anyway."

 

A gleeful chuckle burbled up in Greg's throat, but he couldn't afford to let it out. Mycroft was actually upset and worried, and it wouldn't be appropriate to make jokes in light of his anguish. And so Greg made a concerted effort to remain somber and to answer seriously, even if he couldn't entirely keep his dissension out of his response.

 

"If that's the way it is, then I have no idea why you're so upset about it. Everything's fine and the two of them deserve each other."

 

Mycroft gave the two men a protracted, long-suffering look and sighed loudly.

 

Greg fiddled with his helmet so that Mycroft couldn't see his smile. After a while, he cleared his throat and announced, "Five miles down that way..." He pointed in the direction Mycroft's car was facing. "...there's a nice little café with home-made cakes." Once he'd gotten that off his chest, he stammered a bit, rubbing the back of his neck bashfully. "So, I signed all the stuff for the divorce today and felt like celebrating a bit." He looked off into the distance and blinked several times before returning his gaze to Mycroft and continuing with a nonchalance that was rather forced: "And if I don't have a problem with your brother's lover being a mobster... then I don't understand why you're making such a fuss about it. We can't change it either way. What would Doc Watson be once we're married? My brother-in-law? Something once removed?"

 

"Mar... married?" Mycroft echoed in bewilderment.

 

"If I still have it all straight, you proposed to me in front of two witnesses a while back!" Greg refreshed Mycroft's memory. "Even if the witnesses were a pair of ducks... in my opinion it was legally binding. You're not going to be the mayor and need to maintain your reputation forever. Who knows what the future holds?"

 

Their eyes met, and both men fell silent.

 

"Will you still be here?" Mycroft finally asked.

 

Greg barked out a short laugh. "You know... you're not exactly top of your game today," he noted, shaking his head.

 

"Perhaps I am a bit dehydrated," Mycroft acceded. "A cup of tea certainly wouldn't hurt. Where is this café supposed to be?"

 

"Don't worry, sir. Just follow me at a safe distance," Greg said with a broad grin and made to put his helmet back on.

 

"Just a moment," Mycroft stopped him with a wave of his hand. "I need to take care of something first." He took out his mobile phone, entered a number, and held the phone to his ear. "Anthea," he said when his new secretary answered. "Yes - I'll be held up here a little longer than expected." He listened a moment. "Precisely," he confirmed. "Please cancel the rest of my meetings for today and offer them all alternate appointments. What's that? Yes, use your best judgment. You have access to my calendar. Thank you, Anthea - you're the best PA a man could wish for."

 

With a quiet sense of anticipation and mild gratification, Mycroft put his phone away and signalled that he was ready to set out. Greg drove off, and Mycroft followed. Securing Anthea's services by offering her the free position as his secretary had turned out to be truly inspired. Her abilities had been sorely wasted as a maid in John Watson's household. That had been clear to him at their first meeting, when he'd attempted to win her over to his side and convince her to keep her eyes and ears open around Doc Watson in order to supply him with certain pieces of information.

 

In hindsight, the plan to speak to her in a darkened parking garage hadn't been very well thought out, given that Anthea wasn't especially skittish, and had additionally been equipped with pepper spray. He'd noticed during that incident how energetic she was, and that she was possessed of qualities and talents that were going completely unused in her job at the time - but which were (as he later became aware) wonderful prerequisites for filling the position as his secretary. He didn't have any qualms that she might double-cross him the way she had Doc Watson. He paid her too well for that, and she obviously enjoyed the power and prestige that went with her new job. Plus, it had enabled him to pull one more over on Doc Watson.

 

He drove after Greg with a self-satisfied smirk.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

"She always baked ginger nuts for me... even though she didn't like them herself. She and Aunt Doris used the same recipe... but somehow they never tasted the same as Mama's," Sherlock said in a remarkably small voice that struggled to remain steady.

 

"Who's Aunt Doris?" John asked, surprised.

 

"Irene's mother," Sherlock answered briefly.

 

"Irene?!" John exclaimed. "Irene Adler? How... how long have you known her anyway?"

 

Sherlock frowned. "My whole life," he answered simply, and John's jaw dropped. "I lived with her and her mother after... when I was alone. At least for a while... before I went to my father's. Aunt Doris wasn't really my aunt... I just called her that. She was... my mother's best friend."

 

Sherlock's voice was tinged with wistfulness and a yearning for a childhood that had been irrefutably lost, and John suddenly saw the grave of this unknown woman with different eyes.

 

It was an unadorned, almost shabby stone, containing nothing more than her name, birth and death dates in understated letters and numbers. John had always imagined Sherlock's mother as a fancy, elegant woman... Sherlock must have inherited his charisma and his good looks from somewhere, after all. John took a deep breath. This headstone simply didn't jibe with the image he had of Violet Sigerson.

 

"Sherlock... I could... what do you think? A new headstone? Black or pink marble - polished, of course, with gold lettering?" John suggested with atypical hesitancy. "Maybe a nice quote..."

 

But Sherlock wasn't listening, just shook his head and went over to the grave. John followed in his wake until they were both standing in front of it. John looked up at Sherlock, who was staring at his mother's name where it was engraved in stone, his expression inscrutable. John noticed that Sherlock was leaning heavily on his cane, and his left leg was shaking. John was already reaching out a hand to touch him, to steady him if...

 

"Hello, Mama..." Sherlock said suddenly in a soft voice, sounding both so happy and so sad at the same time that John's heart squeezed, and he pulled his hand back, suddenly uncertain. Sherlock lifted his eyes from the gravestone, up to the blue sky, and took several deliberate breaths before focussing on his mother's name again and continuing in a soft, tentative yet determined voice: "I've thought about what I wanted to tell you for days, and now that I'm here it's all... gone. I'm... I'm sorry, Mama. My life... wasn't what you would have wanted for me, I'm sure - and it probably never will be. But... in the end, it all led me to..." He stopped and hesitated before starting again: "I've met someone I'd like to introduce to you - Mama... this is John," he said abruptly, touching John's arm and pushing him gently but firmly closer to the grave.

 

"What?" John let slip, gawking at Sherlock incredulously. "I..." he started to protest, but he was no match for the pleading look in those pale eyes. He cleared his throat and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, not sure what he was supposed to say. "Erm. Hello... Mrs Sigerson..." he began, only to promptly be interrupted by Sherlock.

 

"Miss," Sherlock corrected him softly.

 

"What?" John asked blankly.

 

" _Miss_ Sigerson. She never married," Sherlock explained.

 

"Right. Um. Miss Sigerson," John said, cleared his throat again and felt like a right tit. "I... I don't know..." He stopped, cast about for words, looked beseechingly over at Sherlock, but he just watched him with a calm, expectant expression. John chewed on the inside of his cheek and straightened his back. He knew exactly which words would be appropriate for this situation, in fact. He knew exactly what he _should_ say... and he _wanted_ to say them, but first he needed to get them past his lips.

 

"Right," he started again slowly, finally giving himself a little internal shove. "Miss Sigerson, I may not be exactly what you wanted for your son, but... I can promise you that I... you don't need to worry about him anymore. Never again." John took a deep breath. _Now_. "Because I love him. Quite a lot, in fact," he said solemnly. "And I..."

 

"You WHAT?" Sherlock blurted out in a tone that lay somewhere between disbelief, indignation, and horror.

 

 _'Right_ ,' John thought, _'time to put the cards on the table.'_

 

He looked up at Sherlock and said, slowly and clearly, "I love you."

 

Sherlock's eyes got big, his mouth hung open and he turned pale.

 

John bit down on his lips. His heart thudded in his chest, slow and heavy, and droned in his ears.

 

 _'Okay, Johnny-Boy,'_ he said to himself. _'You've blown it. Should have kept your big mouth shut. Now he's going to laugh at you or make some excuses. Would have been too much to hope for that...'_

 

"How... how long?" The question came haltingly out of Sherlock's mouth, and John glanced up at him in surprise, taking a closer look. Was that a flash of hope that he saw in that forlorn, disbelieving gaze?

 

John decided to lay it all out there and admit to his feelings - even given the risk that he might be hurt so deeply this time that it was doubtful he would ever recover. He mustered all of his courage and said as calmly as possible: "I think... ever since you broke into my office and started sniffing around in my accounts. But maybe even before that. Maybe even on... that one night... when you kissed me on the mouth the first time. Yeah, I think that was it... you stole my heart with that kiss."

 

Sherlock stared at him wordlessly, his bottom lip trembling, and the uncertainty of what Sherlock thought of his declaration of love almost killed John. He wanted to grab him by the shoulders, shake him and scream, _'Say something! Anything at all, just say something!_ ' but he didn't. In fact, he hardly dared to breathe, waiting as if paralysed for Sherlock to show some reaction.

 

"John," Sherlock breathed out after what seemed like forever, his eyes soft and full of wonder. His cane fell unheeded into the grass beside the gravestone, and before John could react, Sherlock sank to his knees in front of him and wrapped his arms around John's waist so hard that John almost lost his balance. "John," Sherlock whispered again, and buried his face in John's middle.

 

John laid an arm around Sherlock's shoulders and ran the fingers of his other hand somewhat awkwardly through his dark curls. A shudder ran through the slender body, and then one more " _John_ ," sounded through the material of his coat. Only then did John breathe a sigh of relief. No one had ever spoken his name with so much tenderness, and no one had ever looked up at him with so much relief and faith as Sherlock was right now.

 

"Say it again," Sherlock demanded.

 

"I love you," John said, this time without hesitating, and was amazed to find how easily the words came now, and how happy it made him to say them. If he'd known earlier how absolutely fantastic it would feel to see Sherlock's eyes light up with so much happiness, to hear that little sigh of satisfaction from him, by God, he would have said it much, much sooner. John tugged playfully at Sherlock's hair, and Sherlock promptly nestled in closer to him.

 

"Well? How about you? Isn't there something you'd like to tell me?"

 

"Oh, John... do you really need to ask?" Sherlock said, looking up at him with an almost worshipful expression. "You know it... you have to know it... you must know that I love you more than my own life," he said with a sombre smile. But then his expression changed, became more urgent and imploring. "Let's stay together," he said. "Forever."

 

John's heart leapt in his chest at those words, then started beating much faster, feeling almost weightless, but out of habit he concealed his emotions behind a short laugh.

 

"Of course we're going to stay together - what kind of question is that. You..." He stopped abruptly and his smile became uncertain. "That is... Sherlock... that wasn't a proposal of marriage, was it?"

 

"What? No!" Sherlock cried. "What makes you think that?"

 

John's eyebrow lifted. "Well... all that stuff about _‘forever’_ and the fact that you're on your knees in front of me... it's not that far-fetched."

 

"The ring's missing," Sherlock remarked pedantically.

 

John looked up at the blue sky for a moment. "As it happens..." he started tentatively, "I do have a ring here with me."

 

"You have what?" Sherlock exclaimed. "You have a ring? For... _me_?"

 

"Yes, for you," John said, and took a small, flat box out of the breast pocket of his jacket. "But it's not for your finger."

 

"What's it for then?" Sherlock asked, his eyes wide.

 

"I was thinking of a nipple piercing," John said, opening the box to reveal a golden loop bedded on dark blue satin.

 

Sherlock's gaze fogged over as he looked first at the ring then at John through half-lidded eyes. Then he said in a voice that had slipped down an entire octave: "Left or right?"

 

The familiar, lusty throbbing arose in John's groin, and it was only the fact that they were in a cemetery that stopped him from allowing his thoughts to wander off in certain directions. He placed two fingers beneath Sherlock's chin and lifted it slightly.

 

"We're going to end up in jail because of you one of these days... Gross indecency in a public place or something like that," he growled in a hoarse voice. "Now get up so I can kiss you."

 

Sherlock blinked at him coquettishly. "You can do it like this too."

 

"Oh, Sherlock... haven't you realised yet that you don't need to make yourself smaller for me?" John said, pulling Sherlock up. "I love kissing you even when you tower over me like Big Ben."

 

The plump lips formed an _'O'_ of surprise, but any sound was immediately smothered by John's mouth, which pulled Sherlock into a deep, tender kiss.

 

Sherlock clung to John's body with a soft whimper, surrendering to the familiar yet entirely new interplay of lips and tongue. Sherlock had thought he knew every one of John's kisses by now. They could be passionate or hard, tender or brutal, hungry or playful... but he'd never kissed Sherlock like this before, and Sherlock immersed himself in this new kind of caress, forgetting everything around him for the moment. There was only John... John was all that was important... his arms around Sherlock, the faint scent of gunpowder and gun oil which never entirely left him... his fingers stroking the back of Sherlock's neck and sliding through his hair... his tongue pushing in between Sherlock's lips, over and over again, licking and luring... his thin mouth moving greedily over Sherlock's... sensual, passionate and infinitely loving... and Sherlock couldn't get enough of it.

 

His own hands moved across John's back, his lips opened to him unreservedly, his body pressed closer to John, trying to meld with him... become one with him... forever and always.

 

Sherlock pulled away, breathing hard. He rested his forehead against John's and asked, "What else do you have there in your breast pocket?"

 

John laughed.

 

"Poked you while we were kissing, did it?" he guessed. "You really do have sensitive nipples," he teased. "And at least one of them was going to be even more sensitive pretty soon..." His hand smoothed over Sherlock's coat, scratching his chest briefly.

 

Sherlock respiration increased and he automatically pressed himself even closer to his beloved, imagining what it would be like if he had not just one but both nipples pierced... and if John attached a couple of pretty little weights to them... how it would feel if...

 

"It's a … surprise," John's voice cut through the lusty billows of Sherlock's thoughts - highly inappropriate for a cemetery, as sinful as they were.

 

"For me?" Sherlock asked in disbelief.

 

"For who else?" John retorted. "Of course for you, you idiot," he scolded affectionately, taking some longish papers out of the breast pocket of his jacket. He held them out to Sherlock, who eyed them eagerly.

 

"Two plane tickets to Italy... Milan," Sherlock said slowly, turning the tickets over in his fingers. "First class." He gave John an uncertain look. "I... don't have a passport." He shrugged his shoulders. "Not anymore."

 

"Yes, you do," John contradicted him. "I took care of it... well, Mycroft helped a little," he admitted. "Your new passports are back home, just waiting to be used."

 

"Passports?" Sherlock repeated blankly. "More than one?"

 

John gave him a mischievous grin. "Mycroft only wanted to give you one... but I didn't know whether you'd prefer Mr Holmes... or Mr Sigerson... so I … _helped_ things along... a _bit_... and now you have two passports. I had to promise we'd destroy one of them, though... but... what Mycroft doesn't know won't hurt him, right? You never know when you might need a second passport."

 

Sherlock quickly bit his tongue so that he didn't blurt out _'I'd like Mr Sherlock Watson best'_ (John's talk of marriage proposals had given him some rather stupid ideas). Instead, he concentrated on the rest of the information included in John's statement.

 

"Mycroft..." Sherlock repeated flatly. Would wonders never cease?

 

"Oh, right - before I forget..." John spoke up again. "You have an appointment with my tailor tomorrow."  


Sherlock wrinkled his nose. He already had more than enough suits, and nowadays he hated being touched by strange men... by any man who wasn't John, in fact.

 

"What for?"

 

"For your new tails."

 

"Tails? Why do I need..." Sherlock began, only to fall silent. Then he stared down at the tickets again. "Milan..." he said slowly and raised his eyes. "Scala?" His heart pounded with anticipation... might it be... could it be that this wasn't just a business trip that John wanted to take him on? Could it be that it was more like a honeymoon without the wedding?

 

John nodded. " _La Traviata_. I have two tickets for the premiere."

 

"Oh, John..." Sherlock breathed out, deeply touched. He suspected what it meant that John wanted to attend this opera in particular with him.

 

"And a couple of days later... you can choose... Anne-Sophie Mutter or David Garrett. They both happen to be on tour in Italy then and..."

 

"BOTH!" Sherlock blurted out.

 

"Greedy," John reproached him, but nodded. "Okay. Both."

 

"Thank you, John," Sherlock said, and meant it from the bottom of his heart. "I..." He broke off with a helpless expression, shaking his head. He was unable to put into words what he was feeling. He'd been inundated with too much in the past few minutes. It was odd how happiness could also cause one to lose one's composure.

 

"I know," John said softly, tugged at his hair, kissed him on the cheek, and did a double-take. "Hey... don't cry," he scolded him tenderly. "You know that turns me on," he complained, half joking, only to then ask with concern, "What's wrong?"

 

"Nothing," Sherlock sniffled, his voice thick, and wiped away the scant tears that had escaped his eyes with a surly gesture. "It's just..." He looked away. "Such good things don't normally happen to me..." he said quietly.

 

"Oh yes they do," John announced firmly. "From this point on they do. Always. I'm going to personally ensure it. And as soon as we're home, I'm putting you over my knee anyway. Or maybe exactly for that reason," he concluded with a lecherous grin.

 

"I certainly hope so," Sherlock murmured back before staring again raptly at the plane tickets in his hand, trying to comprehend what they represented, what they meant for him... All of his dreams had come true - even those he'd never dared to dream.

 

He looked up and his eyes met John's, who returned his gaze with a certainty and a light that had never been there before, and Sherlock knew he would never again regret a single decision he'd ever made in his life, as every twist of fate had led him to this point.

 

Into John's arm's. Into John's heart.

 

 _'Mama... you'd best forget everything you've ever heard about John. All that matters to me is that he makes me happy. The happiest I've ever been in my whole life,_ ' Sherlock thought, and pressed his lips to John's mouth again, hoping that one kiss would express everything his vocal cords were unable to.

 

When they finally left the cemetery together, Sherlock's cane lay forgotten in the grass.

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

 

**THE END**

 

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

PIC-SET 1

<http://lorelei-lee.tumblr.com/post/135186242114/the-first-of-two-teasers-for-the-next-and-last>

 

[ ](http://40.media.tumblr.com/76efbc7ca9fe6efba853b6583ac40008/tumblr_nzcrdfAonR1rdja6so2_500.jpg)

 

PIC SET 2

 

<http://lorelei-lee.tumblr.com/post/135323566764/i-hope-everyone-is-satisfied-teaser-for-the-last>

 

[ ](http://41.media.tumblr.com/b5132aeb5a8d369e482b0e5be7cf0629/tumblr_nzgm8b1A3o1rdja6so2_500.jpg)

 

 

**And now I have to add a few things to my list of research topics...**

 

The Battenburg markings on police vehicles in Great Britain:

<http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battenburg_markings#United_Kingdom>

 

And the motorcycle makes and models that are used by the British police:

<http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Police_motorcycle>

Of those, I decided on BMW:

<http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/BMW_R1200RT>

 

And this is how I imagined the cemetery, or something like it:

<http://en.tracesofwar.com/upload/0765120911075352.jpg>

 

 **Notes** :  
  
What can I say. It is done. Raise your glasses!

This is actually a happy moment in my life and yet... it's not just joy that I'm feeling.

When this gif set popped up on my tumblr dash sometime at the end of April or beginning of May, 2013, and gave me the first few naughty ideas... I never would have imagined where it would all end... not even if someone had told me.

<http://mrs-mob-johnlocked.tumblr.com/post/47382376565/mob-au-boss-john-bought-the-first-night-of>

Not much time passed from the initial feverish concept (feverish with excitement... not because I was sick) to the uploading of the first chapter. I posted the first chapter on May 6, 2013, and the story was actually complete on June 7, 2013 with 8 chapters.

But somehow, the story wouldn't let me go.

And then one fine day, it was all there in my head. Like a divine vision. (And maybe that's the reason for all the recurring religious symbolism in the story.) Everything was there... Irene... the mayoral elections... Mama Sylvia... Mycroft... the conservatorship... the biscuits... Mike... Greg... Anthea... Crieff... the blue bed... Moran... Moriarty... the showdown... the cemetery. The only plotline that didn't come to me until after I'd started writing was Mary Morstan/Moran. But everything else was pretty much set in my head. Of course not all the details... but the plot was clear. I told the story to Glowworm and themuller one mild summer evening just to try it out... it must have been July 2013. At the same time, I'd already written down the basic outline of the story as well as some of the dialogues that I already had in mind.

The German version of the story here began its existence on August 8, 2013 when I posted the prologue. In my naiveté, I thought I'd be done with the story in 20 chapters. But then... the monster took on a life of its own... and all of the side plots... the little details... the funny scenes and the plot holes (both real and imagined) took on dimension, and ensnared me so completely that it just grew and grew. On the 5th of February, 2015, the German version was completed. I thought that this was the end. But no! The wonderful SwissMiss volunteered to translate this monster. And so… this English version happened. Thanks to her I was able to torment you with this emotional rollercoaster. Please send her many hugs and kudos and comments for her own stories. She deserves it more than I can say.

 

And now it's really time to say good-bye.

 

I do so with one eye crying and one eye smiling.

 

And maybe... possibly... given the right circumstances... I might one day let myself be seduced into writing a one-shot or two for this story.

 

And from what I know of you guys, you'd probably like to see Sherlock asking to "top" one time? Or how the visit with Mama Sylvia goes? Or what it was like in Italy? Or... whether there may yet be a marriage proposal after all... But somehow I think Mycroft and Greg will be getting married first...

 

So as you can see... the boys just won't let me go...

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your wonderful, kind, heartfelt comments. I have the best readers in the whole wide world (web).  
> And now, let’s get a little bit sentimental:
> 
> "God bless us, everyone!" (Tiny Tim)  
> “Bah! Humbug!” (Ebenezer Scrooge)
> 
> Merry Christmas to all of you! And to anyone else not celebrating this event: Happy Holidays and Season’s Greetings!


	48. Important Announcement

My dear readers!

 

This is an important announcement. I will delete the german version of this story tonight.

I rewrote it into an original novel and am currently trying to find a publisher.

I don't know what will happen to this translation. Perhaps I have to remove it, too.

 

So... wish me luck and hit the download button. *smile*

 

Always yours,

 

Lorelei Lee


	49. Good News

I'm very happy to tell you that I found a publisher for my novel which is based on the german version of this story.

 

They allowed that this english version may stay online!!!! I don't have to delete it!!!!

 

I will keep you updated for more news about title, date and so on.

 

 


	50. It happened!!!! Happy Announcement!!!

Yes. It really happened.

 

The german version of this story is published.

If you want to know more you may contact me via tumblr "lorelei-lee"

 

**_Summary:_ **

**_Macht ist für George „Doc“ Walker mehr als nur ein Wort. Als Mafia-Boss hält er die Kontrolle über ganz London in den Händen. Die Begegnung mit dem Prostituierten Sinclair Stevenson erscheint ihm dabei zunächst nur wie ein neues, reizvolles Spiel, um seine dominant-sadistischen Neigungen auszuleben. Doch bald kann er nicht mehr von Sinclair lassen und holt ihn aus dem Bordell zu sich nach Hause._ **  
**_Das gemeinsame Zusammenleben wird jedoch für beide Männer zur Herausforderung, denn Sinclair testet mit seinem losen Mundwerk ungewollt immer wieder die Grenzen von Georges Geduld aus. Gleichzeitig setzt Sinclair alles daran, seine wahre Identität vor George geheim zu halten. Als Sinclairs Vergangenheit die beiden schließlich einholt und ein neuer, unsichtbarer Gegner auf den Plan tritt, muss George erkennen, dass zwischen Macht und Ohnmacht manchmal nur ein gefährlich schmaler Grat existiert._ **

**_  
_ **

 


	51. Awesome Fan Video!!!!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Update" because of AWESOME fan video on tumblr.

Please check out this utterly FANTASTIC video made by mikabee!!!

Original post:

<http://mikabee.tumblr.com/post/170986337113/unless-youve-read-the-amazing-fic-deflowered-by>

 

Give mikabee all the love!!!


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